touring Abstract along the way.

Nothing resembles fact

so much as a large panther

close at hand.

Concrete can be easily understood —

sand and gravel mixed together

with water and powdered Portland cement.

But here there is no hard and fast

that I can touch or be touched by.

There may not be true north.

I’m surrounded by intrinsic

form that represents whatever

it chooses in the moment —

Loyalty?

Perhaps a soupçon of love or hate?

Even gravity is less grave

than it should be, leaving out

all the rotational force required.

When I arrive, at last, I find

that poetry does not exist

without the poem

and no poem can be written

without poetry.