We may embark,
The long unknown before us,
Laden with our tools of discernment,
Our wish for precision
Set athwart us like
A burdened yoke,
But the path, though unseen,
Is well worn, after all.
There,
Just off center,
That place is well known,
A point for which
All numbers
Have been recorded,
Except those
Pertaining to the heart.
“It’s a question of scale.
The same structure,
The same light, dazzles
Our eyes. What part is home,
We decide.”
Said the flea,
To the stork.
There is a heaven where
Storks clean their wings
And keep the earth
Clear of all that crawls
And stings
The light there
Is unbearably true
In twilights gone
Truth fades like some
Antique paint, unsuited
To the impatient light
We deal with nowadays.
Still, a window
Is a window.
exiles child 