I sit

in the L train

devouring some Borges

when my mind sets off on tangents

and yearns.

Questions

begin to form

asking myself if I

will be writing verses five years

from now.

I sigh

to remember

all that I’ve taken up

with febrile enthusiasm is

now gone.

Perhaps

I could expect

now that I graze thirty

all that I thought lost may return

in time.

In this

reassuring

dubious epiphany

I can take solace and read more

Borges.