Our core seems to ever
bear the offhandedness
that bore it...
a flame's mind is the
space it lights.

Slow wind,
hair raising
scintillations...
hands plashing
magenta pools.
Trying depthless
depths.

As if stones outrun rivers
in their perfect sitting...
an inner Sun does not
wince at an outer one.

As ever shall be, the endearment
of the unread...lain sleepless in astral catalepsy.
Fevered forever in seeing, as by the
absence of occupancy--the life of
light lives its pass through and
through.
Absorbed wholly, spoken for by a
silence too great to repeat...
yet tacitly repeating.

If everything is self-canceling,
then everything is self-perpetuating.

The passengers board
the blue bus...it's full.
The passengers unboard
the blue bus...it's empty--
destinationless.
The blue sky's likeness.

At the bend of a park path,
a stranger and I fell into
conversation--a give
and take of rootlessness.
He sat,
I stood...both riveted
by falling leaves.