to feel good is a measure
  of suffering
  no longer
at least
  the wiser good
you never know
until you do

inside this warm rectangle
outside wind shoves the walls
asserting its right, just as i
defiant to becalm this space
brace in hope
  constructed
knowledge will save us

there is a noise that passes
as life does; buzzing
  distractions
to glide through hours
never to be seen again
  shaping
continuous trails
as a stick dragged
  behind
across mud
leaves visible
  impressions
normally unidentifiable
as who exactly,
nor forward
or back

there was always a chance
it would come to this:
  hope spilling out
to flood the house
as a collection of incidents, merged
  by their own weight
  into a diffuse pool,
a sphere of air bounding out
invisibly through the trees
with myself, still at the center
no longer the container
  of what might be
but the substance used
to find along a way

each night from the misty woods
i watch a fisherman in Wales
beginning his day alone, his
floating ship, looking for life
  to take from shallow waters
  life for money, his dad
passing down, a trade made:
  one solitary freedom
  passing along the surface
  dragging down hooks
with his kids at home looking forward
to dad's chosen lots