Tuesday, April 26, 2011


Faith in the fog running high,
I discard myself into diffuse light;
delirious and wingless,

abandoning hope, throwing my life
backwards into the question,
the cloud-hidden.

I read my future in the patterns
of a turtle's shell, or tracing the smoky
line trailing across the sky,

until I dilute into the world's solution,
mingled with the drifts of mist
that water the meadow grass,

and so become the spreading field,
home of the fireflies, all at once
and everywhere popping in the night.

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