If it was all just a formless church of wind,
its wood unfit for carpentry or the fireplace,
slinking its face into the cold,
saying yes to a cathedral without walls.
Passenger
Every future goodbye is already behind you.
So let your life reflect your traveling
like a mirror held above the surface of a river.
Let hunger carve in you an old arrival,
a return to a place that finds its origin
in your coming.
Inebriation
Before we were here,
The orchid walked in the swamp
and drank up the air like wine.
After we are gone,
it will walk there still,
forever drunk on its
pretty sense of elsewhere.