breadcrumbs in the wind

the poetry of every moment is in the witness of its expulsion, the explosion of every pulse— every breathing thought made as like the whirlwind about each world of us, each life, each semblance of individuality under constant yellow sun— from moon to moon to moon and every long and shining star; so we assess the latter and forget the former, are free to smile along before we hear the song, and run on and over-eager to the reason we relish and savor; draw upon immediacy all the colors of hesitation because we know the feeling and feel the meaning turn love into a loop we walk in circles— so then we undress, and redress the issue, the matter of who we are; there cannot be a system exists, justly and truly described, by the elements of which it is comprised, or devised; there is no equation or rite of passage, no one-to-ones: there is simply the collective dive, the aim, the hunt, the retrieval; and the unconscious universe we've traversed.