
Come trace each spiral’s end
the emptiness of every word
fullness of rippling chords
wondering, strange wondering
those that once were
where has the smoke of their pipes
traveled?
To them we were distant dream’s child
a rising vapor over their colossal deaths—
serene nocturnal sounds
Gathering ink droplets
over prayer’s whisper
and the fall, rushing leap
bottom deep darkness into
deep immensity’s embrace
Violin growth of love
the stream naturally light
flight upon mountainous sleep
crossing threads of cycles and returning
Entering moment’s origin
returning every minute
arriving over and over again.