The bland design falls, outward bound.
The swilling beast groans with cheap ecstasy,
What is exterior obliterates me
Until my fragile image asserts its wee voice,
Lost in a chorus
Of wee voices.
I know, I know, I am the only me,
The only conjunction of these points,
But how could you have failed to guide me
Through this hidden path?
Was I supposed to intuit mere chance?
As it is, I’m left to glide along
Street grime the color of storm clouds,
Tipping into a middling redemption
Unawares, using old navigation charts,
Useless azimuths, discarded distances,
Captain of a bottomless vessel,
An occidental sailor upon oriental shores.
See there, where no destination lies.
A simple ending, no beyond, no before.
Not even a reason for despairing.
We’d mistaken the moon for a song.