Is there anything more beautiful
than the movement from complicated to simple?
The wind peels fruitless layers off me.
We have to carry on, bare heart.
Under the earth’s surface, caves,
irregular formations, drip and crystallization.
I am on a pilgrimage to morning
where I get to explore the surface of things.
Hundreds of years pass before the spires diving down
and the spires forging up kiss.
What is unimaginable before it happens,
seems inevitable once it does.
Decades of autonomy before collision.
Not looking for something does not mean not finding it.
Identities, these accomplices, hover in the air, then fall.
They will never survive the ocean.
Poetry is embedded in the walkway here,
what better use for words than to support action?
Sleep is a compass magnetizing
to the southeast and I keep slipping, slipping,
to the place without a map where knowing reminisces
on old history and decisions made in silence.
I arrived from elsewhere but
it is all right here.