Mapping the Unfound

                            Is there a place

                            (there must be
                            a place)

                            where tired summer storms

                            go; a piece of secret water
                            on the ocean's face where

                            gentle trade winds gather

                            to relax collectively
                            to laugh, breathe, sing,

                            to tell stories around
                            the moon's hearth fire
                            when they've had enough
                            of everything?

                            There must be

                            a lost blue island
                            or a low curving beach
                            undisturbed

                            by Cook and Magellan
                            and ignored by every
                            tribe and trans-oceanic party
                            of our time, the high blinking
                       
                            air fleets and streaming
                            satellites that whir past in
                            broad government circles.

                            I see slow lines

                            of hidden chortling clouds,

                            and all the solitude I know

                            seems to dissipate like sunlight
                            every time they approach. Perhaps

                            they chase each other

                            like colored schools of fish
                            who dart in the shallows
                            to escape their own curiosity.

                            I once heard a mortal cloud

                            speak of a place with a

                            forest stream, a trail,
                            a wide breeze near water
                            which may exist 

                            when we pass
                            through doors we make
                            of our own unknowing.

                            They say we must remain low

                            and still, sit down deeply
                            against the heavy earth,
                           
                            listen backwards
                            and wait for stars
                            to announce the names
                            of every unfound place

                            and how we might

                            someday unfold there
                            like a lily or an acorn
                            or a beautiful young stream
                           
                            flowing into who
                            we already are.

                                             Solitude With Everything

                                             When high white sails

                                             lean tall against our ceiling

                                             (distracting us from

                                             boulders quite possibly

                                             made of wind),

                                             we cannot see

                                             the heavy air

                                             that we know is aligned

                                             with heavy seas.

                                             On average sinking days

                                             night and water

                                             fall each time we fall

                                             and cover most of our faces

                                             with insight and solace.

                                             Tonight,

                                             we turn the whole

                                             round earth with ease

                                             making ourselves

                                             a clean fertile stream of

                                             needs and possibilities.

                                             Here we stand

                                             around the music

                                             of faraway places, offer

                                             casual thoughts and crimson

                                             conversations, and we ask ourselves

                                             what more of summer's

                                             exuberance we might expect

                                             beyond the extra look that some

                                             men give,

                                             the hidden pink hued stars

                                             that endlessly coil

                                             into the midst of us,

                                             the young dancing girls
                                             we dream about who

                                             leap into a sky 

                                             filled with monarchs

                                             and gulls who laugh at the

                                             notion of

                                             only one try

                                             only one tune

                                             only one everything.