Who Journeys:

I would travel to windows

if I try hard with my budding limbs.

Knotted & rooted 

to indivisible multiplications

of existence, I admit—

though planted in me, 

a whim I coppice

to long for

& journey.

***

Who Journeys:

Time

bilge rats into crevices. I keep coming back

to scrubbing vinegar 

belowdecks. I picture

the elephant stepping onward

legs as if of pillars 

of a perpetual pavilion 

forming as it walks.

I should feel the weight & wonder.

Instead of a hypostyle, 

halyards, if anything

tangled. Instead of an elephant, 

rats. Instead of a straight walk, 

a web of journeys 

as time keeps

coming back to the same barrel 

on second thoughts looking for 

second helpings or a stolid

corner or a curb 

to hide a cloud 

of anxieties in, 

perpetually hungry 

for attention
We call that remembering.

***

Who Journeys:

Place, before we know it, comes undone

from anchorage. 

Unmoored which is to say moving. It’s a garden 

to be pruned into being. It’s a harbor 

borne by a gunny sack 

still mendable. It’s a carriage house 

still young with horses.

It straddles a river—

and we see fish like ferns.

As tusked, we walk across:

we speak of Rodinia and feel

movement

as it rumbles

maps of many a journeys.