It appears that the what of it all
such as it is, happens between
ordered chains of causalities
& wild storms of infinite chance
so if then i should glimpse & dare
some address, will it matter? where
are you going and where have you
been? & i wonder what other
questions hide behind the veil
of this one, a bawdy elegy for
some lost relic, now lucid,
now dense, entombed
where root whispers to
root then sings to leaf
amid reaching of singular
dendrites across impossible
gulfs, where i am made
of volatile stuff between
ice and liquid, you may
find me
in the melt between lake
and cloud where i must be
the flying off.
