once life ran wild through my house.
poetry was a bowl of air--nothing more;
love poured like a river into silence.
this morning as i drove down the
road over the mountain, i thought about

how impatient i always am to get there--
to the end of the road, the story,
the waiting.

but the most dazzling star is the one
that shows us the way
when moss has covered our memories
and there is a forest behind us,
a desert before us, and we are trudging
for our whole lives
in the middle of an unmarked way.

poetry is the sound of the tumbling
of silken pebbles when the
heart's walls fall down,
light first enters, and you can
step clean through--

in other words, a journey
plotted with a compass of
magnetized longing
where the line of sight
barely reaches the mirage-
like edges

of a far horizon