Someplace, you’re told, is
SOME place! as in Wow! as in
Look what you’ve got here!
It’s a step up from nowhere,
And then some… But really,
even at 10, then 30, then 50,
you thought the route from
Point A to Point B would proceed
in a somewhat orderly fashion
without veering off to Point K
immediately after G, then back to D.
It’s dizzying, this map that shape-shifts
into a first-model GPS gone haywire,
your life a poster child for motion sickness
as you trek as quickly as you can
behind Still Point of the Turning World
who, for the love of God, won’t actually stay
still, tight-roping across the equator without
once huffing or puffing, even the eyes
in the back of his head fixed forward.
Or is that you: up front, determined,
as always, to steer clear of Scylla and Charybdis,
but instead ricocheting between them both?
Whose small, cool shadow follows so spirit-like?
Sunday nights, you sway to Blues,
batten down the hatches for Dismay,
but one evening on a cliff overlooking
an everyday sunset, you’re surprised
by your own single note of joy.
You stop moving. And that is when you begin.
