increasingly he found himself
resting, like things,
in that twilight between.

walking along the path,
he looked up,
only to realize that he was moving
not through space,
but through himself.

he sought endings where
only beginnings could be found.

no tower of babel was required. he understood nothing anyone said
in any language. not even any of the nonsense he himself continually
spewed. but, dumbfounded,might this not have been a heaven too?

his was the surest of paths,
futility never needed to be sought.

mornings would always elude him
—there was simply no awakening.

.
.

.
some sought symbols,
but found only things.
others sought things,
but found only symbols.
he, however, remained unsure
and would not settle for either.

.
.

he suspected that he had entered a new phase
—one in which it would appear that nothing,
absolutely nothing, had changed.

.
.

his limp only became apparent
when he sat completely still.

.
.

sitting on the side of the road,
he would once again find himself
enveloped in a fog of clarity.

.
.