Why think of the once anchored past floating
away from a minor boundary or a standard
form of inquiry? Bring your vision to this cloth
knowing that plans only function as provisional,
as though to rob simplicity from a minor cloud.
Look up at midday. Your mind builds a galaxy,
distracts vision from surplus: that rough surf turns up
and up but it only distracts from what’s along
the sand. To gratify your imagination would fall into myth
of carrying gold lightning away from rain clouds, combining
tranquility with words stitching from thoughts. Nothing past
stars horizon-bound or stars along this road, a turning away
from sky but now air falls down to vision, a difficult
thought to forgo id, to shift acorns from burning to burn.