Endings aren’t very popular. They remind of the finitude of things. They remind us we’re not immortal. I knew what I had with B. wouldn’t—couldn’t—last forever. Perhaps that’s why I was so desperate to milk every moment. Did I know in September 1989 she was thinking about getting married? I can't remember now. On 29th October 1989 I wrote my last poem for her. And then nothing for seven months and then nothing for a year.

 

I’m fifty-seven years old and when I look back all I see are closed doors. There’s no point opening them because there’s nothing on the other side. These few poems are all I managed to salvage.