The Return

Where were any round things fed where anchors were?

Or, how were upturned things filled from inner parts

Where you thought you knew it all?

Or where were any returns of a single singing tree

Where in the sadness of its enforced explaining

It had all but died?

Could it be the doves had gone and left their holes

In one who of love had once been made whole?

Yet exhausted of all reasons for explanations

Begged for The Return?

Perhaps ‘best’ would come back once ‘good’ had gone?