I
Tell me O Stranger
The path of your taking,
For I wish to draw a map,
And course your life,
Upon a single line,
Point to point.
II
Err you would,
If you mark my steps with ink,
For I tend to rise from dust,
And in dust would I resign,
No aid of angles needed,
A dot is my design.
If one could see
As far as the other can think
How the world would weep
The loss of sight!
I yearn to row,
And cleave this crystal ocean; a lambent sapphire,
In two flawed gems,
So that the world could see and sense,
The fault in the form, and not the framer,
For once,
To understand,
That no sharp edge cuts it clean enough.
The velvet night,
Curved around the edges,
Rippled; as I fell,
Naked under the new moon,
Sifting sand,
Announcing my arrival,
Too frail to notice,
The cold indifference,
Stretched along the shore.
