The Path

Recommitting to the path.
To the focused wandering.
Through the variables.
Down the avenue of sycamore.
Through the vacuous.
Enhanced by solid waiting.
Residual strength
like red halfmoon capsules
in the crown of morning shade.
Through the failure
mutated by success.
Through the lonely sanctum
that heals itself
through the cracks in the floor.
A seductive cat.
A power dream.
Through the downtown buildings.
Through the downtown eyes.
On the jagged and smooth cobblestone.
Through a naked clamoring
and through the conversation
of hint, pronoun, boredom.
A shell chord ringing.
Macaronesia, a lodestone,
through the absence of debt,
the year of disintegrating shadows,
of the white iridescent cloak.
Gravel and feldspar.
Cyprus trees and the night glacier
and the dustcloud from a patagonia bus.
Through the pets made neurotic
by the damage of the owners
and the women never touched,
out of the bar and out of the world
that lets grow a new datum
in the expanding requiem.
Recommitting
until the new drift
in some romantic barter
for some new promise
only a rind, only a vessel,
only the tyranny of the promise,
not a day of storms in the chamber.
Talk of cars, insipient brag,
the artificial watch that does not fit.
The topic has never changed.
Through the name and its womb.
Through the subtle birth
of the mosaic of coastal light
and the gargantuan rumor
like the blazed silhouette
of a secret mountain, a rounded tomb,
the crash site of the archaic seed.