now, there is loud thunder. the lightbulb blinks in symphonic beginnings. its language is faith, ours is in asking. i ought to tell you: the road home is long with no lamp to light. the clouds hang low in the pinball air. there is talk of stalking myths, hungry, by the roadside. the camels could cross suddenly. the steering wheel could end up navigating the gulf. And the rain, the rain could turn into the flood--
but all our arks have been broken. no Land. no Noah. no Dove.
go inwards anyway,
a sunlight would never sink.
Sometimes a poet, other times a chair enthusiast.