The Quiet

Darkness falls hard on the black pond, persistently,

through the porous granite of foggy slumber.

Into its embrace I hurtle my self, fearless almost,

the threshold of my vision lower than ever,

the threat of the unknown untraceable,

the image unseen, the hidden sight

tucked away in the bottom drawers of deep memory,

the risk quieted—

in freezing hypnotic spiral, in a blank ambiguity. Pale moonbeams

penetrate into this almost-emptiness, shivering over

glassy ripples on lake-surface, undisturbed

the notes of early dawn crawling gingerly over your skin,

charting courses on maps undrawn,

in deeper engraved traces, journeys that can

cover the distance the water has not gushed in,

but never are completed—

—when completed, nowhere is there to go,

nothing ends in anything. Far far away,

photons fly unrestrained

on the shadows of the unobtrusive cove

behind the basalt boulder, and, in synch temp, the

string of water lilies anchored on the muddy lake-

bed sway, swinging without knowledge or wisdom.

Only instinct.

Then, tomorrow, I have a remembrance

of the future, a foggy one,

there is no outlet for the flow of thought, the exactness of words

fails in definitions and subtext, we cannot

expunge emotion off prepositions or subjective clauses,

an ocean that tightly maintains is calmness and

fullness, the heavens

are converging on the singular vanishing point of shapeless constellations,

merging the grammar of intent with the

syntax of will, a design so

determined and dormant

that the pronoun “us” has no meaning left, only a faint

remnant of hopes and dreams, what is left

when one entertains his last thought.