Here, in a place
That is only quiet on the surface;
There is a faucet that runs
As constant as the night
at the closing of the year.
I wash my tired face
I soak and scrub the few faded decades
off of this map on my hands.
I inhale the pulsating fragrance
of my freshly varnished hopes and plans.
I am unsure if I am an extension
of this giant spinning world,
or if it is a dizzy part of me.
Whatever the connection may be;
It stirs question upon question
That entertains the hopelessness
And transforms it
into something butterfly-like.
Contemplation of what I am
and what I should be doing here
Overflows and dampens
the sympathetic air
I’m never a step closer to knowing
But all the stars my eyes have met
Are there, bright in the sky, still showing;
and something about that sight
urges this wanderer to keep going.