I lay walking stones in the Garden,
knowing we will someday have to cross it

The moss grows in the seams to blend them
perfectly in: miniscopic canopies

Life at times
seemingly so far away

I once knew a stoner who posited
that we were equidistant between all things
at all scales

Where we lie
is where the octave is

We see that receding
as coming to us

All of the flowers all wrong
all of the time

Once on the prow of a boat
I was immersed in salt briny wind
so lovely and strong
we blew timeless

and I dove in
even though I can’t swim

here now at the 4-way stop
of the Garden’s pavers

Chagall 2020