Unsure of where to go,

as direction only is as true

as the stones which show

what not to do,

we pool our hazes in collections

of haloes and reflections,

the tipping points of streams,

and then head out to try

where the jagged teeth of dreams

might lie.



Unsure of how or where,

blind men know

that eyes can share

only what the skies let show,

slip when they're allowed

into pools of sun and cloud,

and, tipped by gravity,

head out to try

where the edges of the sea

might lie.