The end of it
by Andy MacGregor

Nothing in the end of it
prepared me for the beginning:

not the fire in the street
or the unexpected calm

as your last reproachful glance
sent me back to that first time

on the bus going north
when you laid your head

on my shoulder and I felt
that thrill, a vibration,

not knowing if it was you
or me, or just the miles

vanishing beneath us
into the unseen distance.

Then there was that night
when, out of nowhere,

you went on and on
obscurely about the past

being always present—
how every moment

is that one original
instant of creation

still unfolding endlessly,
but showing a different face.

I listened dutifully of course
while my tea grew cold

and the evening yawned
blackly outside the window.

No doubt it’s as true now
as it was all that time ago:

there…