1.

the touch of a finger

that lingers longer

a jolt, a charge

that feeds back –

back through the body, back through time

Racing and tracing and

reaching and chasing the highs the lows

and the aether following flows

we go so far

forget who we are

and yet

we have to go further to get there

to sleep to go deeper

to dream to retrieve

go beyond what we hope we believe

To arrive at Eden to create it anew

to begin

and sin it all away

again.

2.

When did we pass

the point of no return

when we had the dream

or on waking, shaking nightmare cold

old skin

clammy, wet.

prints, setting in cement

a father’s reluctant call

ringing in our ears

echoes riding on fresh fears

nailed not nailed

nothing true

regret, hope, residue

standing here it’s hard to see

anything but ruin, feel

anything but death and

disappointment fill my eyes,

empty my heart

but have we lost sight

did we forget

we live

we owe

the dead a debt

3.

I’m not sure now,

thinking back,

when I thought it might end

or even when I began.

I had in mind a grand plan,

a cycle,

something worthy,

substantial, vital

to make, if only myself,

proud.

now, gone awry,

removed from fantasy, I have arrived

at despair—

finding myself not desperate there.

There is surely a place for ambition

(poetic or not)

a moon, a Mars, to aim for

and if it takes time to arrive, so what?

and if one never arrives, so what?

pursuit is its own reward,

its own end,

travels of its own accord:

by any other name an autonomous vehicle

transporting us,

from who we are to who we will become.

Maybe this one is all I get

maybe the others remain,

like Mars,

distant ideas

seen from afar

never reached but observed, admired,

a goal to never reach but to stretch,

to seek, maybe that’s enough.