There is no fulfillment,
no completion

I see all lines of inheritance
opening up
like the alluvial fan below Siehtagas,
or like the open mouths of fish in a creek
soundlessly motioning an ”oooh”
- and long last breaths exhaled in waning winds

I'm not an uncarved block,
not a P'o character explained by Chuang Tzu

My means of meaning are meager,
opening up in forest floor trickles;
ideas used and left to themselves;
spots of sunlight dancing on a brisk day
in the coniferous forest belt;
fissured identities seeking shelter
with the Fairy slippers (Calypso bulbosa)
in deep woods shade under introverted mountains
as I work all kinds of expressions
through poems, long & short,
admitted to paper,
left like infants in maternity wards,
like old men on benches in a 1963 Bob Dylan stanza,
or dissolving bodies in palliative care:
days stretching to the horizon and beyond

I have my voice make imprints,
talking myself through this life;
the microphone always a good listener;
the secrets buried in the mindless full view
of winding worlds of words

I go bodyfold up them ages, sprinkle my urine,
defecate for the benefit of substantiation

There is no fulfillment,
but that is as it should;
no completion but a trickle in forest moss;
inheritance opening up
like the alluvial fan below Siehtagas,
or like the open mouths of fish in a creek
soundlessly motioning an ”oooh”
- and long last breaths exhaled in waning winds