Though the past generally precedes the future,
there are occasions when we float
the way a Peace dollar hovers
over a pool of mercury,
the buoyant force of a mind
unclinging itself from self, a time dilation,
an accelerated glide along vertumnal lines.
We calculate the paths of kinship,
execute contracts on love, dispense fine print
limiting our liability, we grow hard
like a grain of sand, a grain that grows
like a dream when we close our eyes,
the globular glow
of a second awakening.
The wooden sign
nailed to the side of the outhouse
says: The turbulent strokes
of the seascape have killed
5 x 5 + 3 visitors, 1 let go
and flew 20,000 leagues over the sea and
was reborn as a starry night.