The End

I reached the end 
of the end.
I found the edge

sticking out of a fence
where it spun
in the wind, 

sharp as a thorn.
I held on
to whatever 

it had been
at the start of existence,
a stem cell

from which dreams 
are grafted.
But my connection

was only a tail
that diminished me.
I had been led to believe

each moment carried me along
like an arrow
without a target.

I had no choice
but to hold my place
in a field of weeds

tied to a scrap 
that crumbled me
back to the beginning.

My body was a sip
of enlarged air
I made myself.

I saw my body, too,
belonged to the shape
of earth curved toward me,

inviting what I became
to circle back
wide as a galaxy

if I was lost.

Greg Jensen has worked with homeless adults living with mental illnesses and addiction problems for over 20 years. His work has appeared in ‘december,’ ‘Bodega,’ ‘Crab Creek Review,’ ‘Fugue,’ ‘Belletrist,’ and ‘Dunes Review.’ Greg holds an MFA in Poetry from Pacific University.