Unsure of where to go,
as direction only is as true
as depths which show
us what not to do,
we pool our collective gleams
in the haloes and
the tipping points of streams,
and then try to stand
where the jagged dreams
of rocks might fly.


Unsure of how or where,
blind streams know
that beds can bear
only rushes apropos,
but slip when they’re allowed
into pools of sun and cloud,
where, vaporized,
they rise up to find
where the blinders of the eye
might bind.


I dreamt this poem; Cathy suggested the double meaning.

Bolton Abbey
July 23rd, 2013

Car to London
July 25th, 2013

September 11th, 2021