Why is it (I sometimes wonder) that completion is so elusive? "I'm finished!" we cry when the last of the dishes is in the cupboard; when the last line of the poem is typed; when the workdesk is cleared on Friday night. Then we find a forgotten spoon on the dining table; that the poem didn't say all we intended; on Monday that Friday's work was done on Penelope's loom. Is there no surcease from the unfinished/incomplete from fragment's frustrations? But wait! Is merely being finished really a purpose? Or, does the answer lie in knowing there must be a secret wholeness which only reveals its infinite facets one by one?