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∴

the question then, at last returns:

to what is it
we hope for?

 

to what shore
do we conceive
and pull our sacred ropes toward?

 

this soul
that freely sets its sail
upon the stirring green,

can buffeted spin
in current-less pools,
back and forth,
unto itself,
course-lessly careened.

 

o compass,
tightly held,
i cannot lean against you.

for how does one
who direction hails
give use to one
whose direction fails?

 

o visionary to the blind,
whose future lies in hidden minds
like all that wealth below –
in weightless, waving emerald strands
and iridescent gill –

look upon this sun-swabbed deck
and a sole performer
on the stage,
silent,
song-less,
skinless,
still,

 

and wobble therein patiently
as i factor what the wage is
to considering less latently,
needles in glass cages.

 

o confirmer of resolutions,
give me courage and sea’s ablutions;

for what captain am i
to stay transfixed
and tread not toward
the aim of ships?

∴

 

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