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