I am prone to tracing crosses
in near empty ashtrays.
I don't really know why,
but this behavior, perhaps
a tick of the mind to the finger
tips me into some grievous
absolution while slowly,
knowingly, killing myself
smooth, drag after drag.

But that, in itself,
is mere supposition.

Perhaps I seek direction
in an ashen compass,
ringed with bent
singed needles
piled at the edges
because not a single one
found true north.

But that, again,
is mere supposition.

Down,
in The Valley of Fires,
where three rivers converge,
a cross on a rock emerges,
scratched stone upon stone
by a hand more ancient than known
to pass unto me a pattern, hard-wired,
affixed in all our yearning - to seek
that single point - home.

But that, too, is mere supposition.