World Without End

Here you are, cast 
once again in the role
of the afflicted— in some

stories, you spin
something coarse into gold.
In others, you count 

the uncountable— a driveway
pooling with gravel, a tray
of mixed seed to separate

by color and size. Mostly 
you have no quarrel with  
the material— grain and rock 

are quiet and uncomplaining.
You think you learn something
— how nothing's truly 

without end, how the impossible
is maybe the poorer cousin
of the infinite, which

being what it is, 
can never be exhausted 
in the first place.