When complexity becomes a great
risk.
Rushing, the spring, into the
impatient heart leaves the pathway
brown.
We have sat where the river flowed
a thousand feet above us: Memory.
The high-ground becomes the center
that was abandoned.
The birds drive out the man's
perfect thought.
Rather than running to keep in
front of the world, encircling it
until we dissolve in it, find the
passageway that blinds the world
and brings us to the heart of
secrets.
Destructive furies have filled the
old; the smile becomes wicked.
