I advance to the edge of encounter.
No better way to disclose my motives.
If only I could make the motion
to reclaim patterns of the past.
The sky is girded with steel, ratcheted
to contain the misery of Earth.
Circling for a place to land, the lucent
moon drowns in the ocean tide.
Strained to the limit, I grind under
the weight of monotony. Existence
teeters on a pointed rock that wavers
in gales from the north. Ice spreads.
A golden, azure dawn. One way
to defeat death lies in the dregs of charity.
I give myself over to the élan vital.
It overcomes the cares of the living.
No promise draws me into the horizon.
No sense of duty answers the resounding
Either/Or. Nature cycles through seasons
without identity. The self wanders, balances
on stone, rises to new life, juggles the possible
with the inevitable. Pascal’s wager renews itself.