if I could open all the mysteries that daunt

would there not yet be another mystery lain

at yet another level or circuit of my being?

what of this earth and sky that is not seen

but felt in the bones and in the electrical pulses

throughout this finely tuned cutting, this scion

what am I cut from and what does carry me

in these ways that have many names, one

of which might be apocrypha or rubric lost

we have come upon things inexplicable, yet

somehow we are not at peace nor openly greet

that which is beholden to vastness and fire

we have looked upon our own center, that void

where the eye cannot see nor rightly focus

something of what we are, a purity in depth

and simplicity simultaneously defies convention

all things gathering and also falling around

this shockwave that has no compass or steer

perhaps that is the mystery, somehow we are

free of place and time yet conjure it still as

everything we do and say, playing at substantiation

we catch ourselves again and again in the folly

of needing to know how to come and go

when in coming there is the going ~ no distance