As the black wings close in on you,
their circling shadows blighting the sand,
and your limp legs buckle, far
from that shimmering oasis
on the horizon,

as you face the implacable,
hoping for one more lucky reprieve
which you feel in your quivering heart
will arrive a moment too late,

still,
even after the first white pill,
you will not surrender,
for back there somewhere,
safe from the hovering vultures,
is that sketchy
grand design, that revolution
on the drawing board—no,

all these years you've resisted
that sleek seducer, Completion—and now,
as the mask snugs over your face, you feel
your legs go young again, heading out
for the shimmering palm trees
they will never reach,
and you suck in great welcome gulps
of the endlessly possible.