enraged with your reasoning, my jaw juts,
forcefully breathing, I won’t look at you—;
my line of vision straight like my rhyme cuts,
call to me, I’ll turn: and just dare ask who.
this story is of time and those best friends—
whom I may only bear the distinction
of knowing heart to heart and at wits’ ends
where it is, the source of self-contention—
that there be a key: is something locked—
but which has the shape, the form, the request
and what is that space occupied ahead
and who is the one saves your bequest.
and that there be a code, there is access,
and love and duty and one who’s fastest.