my God
makes me
write poetry
else I dissolve into
bittersweet conformed infinite
but for now I remain in tangible worlds in motion
by seasons, seas, a grand display of flowers to graze
as a passenger aboard absent will I remain writing the word.

The only answer
is there is not only one
but then that’s no answer either
in worlds not divine but in dilemma, porcupine;
I am fine finding quiet reflections in pools of water and
my style is pilot-weathers-storm-else-dashed-against-pale-ground-below.