Itinerary
Traveling north’s a misnomer, but somewhere
strings connect until light begins
and then perhaps falls into shade as day’s ending,
creating its parable
that only fractaled can read.
You may end again before you know
what to do, but a story of bodies
evolving may press in on you,
too. If you go further north, you’re doomed to be cold,
but if you go south again stars set
into water, and it gets so murky
that areas of shade can’t find a way.
If you stay north, you may be in for some fun,
and if you head west space will
open out before you, though you may be puzzled
by synergy of trees
that you find there (and there are wheels).
An edge of irony that you’re permitted will stay
to still a stone that burrows at your center,
whichever way you decide to take your traveler’s course.
But a body knows what a home is,
although each scene can feed fragments
back beyond you, and out.
And if home is a place where you see belong
emblazoned across the new skyscrapers,
then why not write instructions, your new part?
As if to find an edge of some other sky,
you pretend at leaving, cross the lines.
You’ll write a questionnaire again,
and leave it by a station.
You’ll check in with your own attunement,
the place where you last left a thread.
Suspicious of structure, now go forth.