In a boat down a fast running creek,
it feels like trees on the bank
are rushing by. What seems
to be changing around us
is rather the speed of our craft leaving this world.
The mystery does not get clearer by repeating the question
nor is it bought with going to amazing places.
Until you’ve kept your eyes
and your wanting still for fifty ears,
you don’t begin to cross over from confusion.
A secret turning in us
makes the universe turn.
Head unaware of feet,
and feet head. Neither cares.
They keep turning.
Late, by myself, in the boat of myself,
no light and no land anywhere,
cloudcover thick. I try to stay
just above the surface, yet I’m already under
and living within the ocean.