How long must the heart
observe this dry ceremony?
Interior voyages have long sunk
all arks of wisdom
all planes of craft
all space of locus
Do eyes see what they always see?
Do fingers feel what they always feel?
Do limbs pulse what they always pulse?
Ancient hermits have blinded the eyes
that now mistake the oceans for the sky:
think then of gymnasts who dream
of heaven while standing on their heads:
Necromancy leads you—as always—
to dusty promontories:
the watchtower burnt down
& papers scuttled about the rocks
like broken sails:
The horizon of deadends thus reads:
seek new wisdom
alchemy of eyes on exterior prowl;
leave your anchorage:
the flight of seagulls
Be the alpha & omega
of personal mystery.