Enduring the unspeakable isn’t atonement
but if it were to speak, would its words echo imprecision,
or be a dark hand waving a night of ships from a harbor
awaiting their inevitable wreckage ahead of a typhoon?
With so many questions and few answers,
daylight is cast by what it doesn’t reveal—and I wonder
if this is how it what was always meant to be,
each time a mystery about what can and does go wrong,
as if an ending could be redirected, a course altered,
that any of it could’ve been different,
when randomness is not random, but taken
from a platter of choices not offered.