An imperfect set direction,
in myriad set selection,
all within a crimson vision,
and a radical decision
fit for a presence with plummeting precision.
I suppose the world has seen it all,
written on every page, on every sandy beach,
every cloud of form, every bursting street.
And I know that my life is too small
to turn every page, to notice every curve
of each letter forming the words “HELP ME,”
to see every angel, every death and birth.
Gravity is grounded in transition,
in potted plants in division,
each root with a visionary mission,
all an extreme evolution,
sitting in the midst of an essence of a collision.
I pack my bags, filling them with soil
and seeds to plant for next spring to toil for new days,
on new land and new streets to bring new peace.
I know I can’t change the world,
but I can write some extra pages in the
novel of generations, and send seeds to those beaches
to plant in the canals of “Help.”