““WITHOUT END There is no final poem, just as there was no original poem, and if there was a tree that held a knowledge of good and evil then we have done nothing with that knowledge, moving back and forth between the two, perplexed as sparrows in a storm batting their small heads against windows they don't see. The poem is betwixt and beyond, within and out, not the apple eaten, but the planets themselves the apple and core, and we the hungry, open, O-””