The blank stare of rote memory
is a look into what we will become.
Better throwing yourself into the wind,
flying into the unknowable that surrounds us.
The sun and moon are as we wish.
Trees shake like sawgrass in the wind.
What do we desire more than to see our
image reversed in a mirror, or to become
unrecognizable on the rubbery surface of water?
There is no crux here, no matter of fact,
Only the long wait for the appearance of something,
say the sound of a million stars
spinning in a universe conceived without us in mind.