A rift between drifters will spill
over a giant phantom’s epidermis

that goes on forever
like pi—never to be solved.

Some of us will be born airborne.
Others, nesting terns that follow

moon beam lanterns,
ready to be rescued on cue.

When we recover sight
of our first cove, we will know

it’s over.

It will be a geometry of ions
that contains all the questions

we will not answer during this
quest. It will be a disaster

of aster blooms to come next fall.
It will be the image of our age

as it gets written ten times
on a tangled vine

that has tumbled down another
ravine. So much will be left

unsaid

about the air that comforts
the prairie each morning.