All the flotsam in the maelstrom
That swirls around my life
The gifts, the books, the objects
The sounds and loops of circumstance

The photographs, the scribblings
Late at night, alone
The wisps of dreams and terrors
Waves collapsing into foam

All the things I touched and changed
Forks and lips and bees
A blind-one’s path, but pure somehow
Traceries on waters deep

I don’t remember how it started
All these things and styles
At night, alone, I wonder, though
Because the moon is dreaming