It’s the road less traveled—
that’s
the one I wonder about,
whether
I’m daydreaming on dust motes
or
sliding into a long shadow
when
my thoughts grow dark as November.
Call
me Ishmael or a son of light.
It’s
the one we all wonder about,
both
Adam and Adam’s rib.
My
mind always circles back,
calculating
vectors, a swell of waves,
the
schizophrenic oak growing east and west.
Kisses
sweet as pears and plums,
the
novel that didn’t work,
the
man digging a hole
that
turns out to be his grave—
everything
proceeds and yet doesn’t.
A
leaf falls into the high grass,
trapped
and headed for decay.
A
wind from nowhere kicks up
and
sends it pinwheeling to the stream,
though
I couldn’t tell you why,
for
I hold no patent on a destiny that breathes.
Suffice
to say that the leaf finds a swell of ocean.
Call
me Ishmael. I think we all find the sea.
~William Hammett
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