for the roughly fourteen
thousandth time
at the pocked,
cockeyed face of a
three-quarter moon
as it floats there,
treading the
infinite waves
of this goalless,
shoreless
ocean of a universe;
I'm confused
to find that, inside,
I'm still thrilled
to believe
there must still be
something left
to parse in me,
some invisible fragment
still worthy
of rescue—
even if it looks,
at best, blotted-out
or lost
in its own black
and most boundless
of all possible pools:
the one with no depth,
no surface,
no rules.
