My end is open ended,
a river that falls off the earth, and becomes free.
I am one to trust in journeys; in nightfall I observe
the doughy world being rolled into a ball by a stranger’s hand.
No light, no light, we are in the cave, and by an echo
we follow the scent of air out of the darkness, and by grace
we stumble upon the trees.

Our story is open ended. The stars
have their deliberations, and send down their promulgations,
the glow of wet ink settling, shining
on pages placed by our bedsides each early, early dawn.

The way is open ended.
I fill my belly with the food of tall tales and old glories,
take my telescope, trek my road, my bag harboring
gold and fool’s gold, for I, as a distant human being
know not the difference.

Even so, I love
the hardness of this fleeting time.