The strain all afternoon whipping up ghosts, concerning itself,
As I am walking, if I will go on just because
I’ve yet to go this way.
The night sky prefers Euclidean simplicity,
Trestles of endless rust-colored dusk, and the savage good looking stars.
As for beginnings, as for setting out, what is there to speak of?
That frost knows more about fractals then I do,
Echoes are nests for sound?
I think we are all philosophers, and poor ones at that.
I think we are all arm wrestlers and tobogganists and of the future.
Always the strain late into the afternoon, as the moon wiggles out of itself, and is the first to
Thrust its hands into the sea.