Somewhere in some

faraway Northeastern land

a man, with his plan

is spiraling off into the clouds;

occasionally, accompanied

thinking: indeed it were

love all along,

reassures himself that

the art is not gone,

notices a peculiar pattern

in the sandy granite gravel

on the other side of the

trees, being some creature

of a smoky lagoon

and finally reemerges

into the beautiful sunlight

quite pleased to be

anything at all.