Ground mists
of Olympic
National forest
and bright spume of Puget
Sound seafoam
and the thick piebald clouds
housing an over-
polluted mid-
western freight town—are one,
are all present
here in the
sound of the voice that's speaking,
are all simultaneous-
ly something
and nothing,
are all really only
made from electricity
and a few numbers—and are all,
like us, simply longing
to prove to the west wind
they exist.
And this breath—which is nothing
but the animation of a feeling, exists
in relation to none of them.
But still
the oneness persists, the oneness
resists, is pushed west
by that same wind;
the very same oneness
which was
when the first lone globule
started speaking,
and which now, at the ending
still is. Because there can never
be an end
to a thing—that's one thing.
