of tautologies and tragedies

I’ve become Penelope,
my looming loom in front of me
I weave my woes
my worries, my words
calling cohesion into confusion

But at night
I sneak before that harp
whose music muses
in C# tragedies in
this manifold tapestry

that I un-hook,
un-slip,
un-do,
regret
my one step forward
and one step back
—my love stepped forward,
and I stepped back.

So life’s a paravision,
a sad spectator sport
where no one wins
when the yarns are tied
and the game is too

As I undecide
to eschew reason for intuition
or vice versa,
and Telemachus tells me
that’s the point:

my tragedy a tautology,
and love is love,
but what is that?