Howard Firkin
This journey starts without a leaving and
will end without arriving; you will sail
the blue-black sea in search of land and fail.
The sea is shoreless and there is no land.
Acceptance is the only wisdom here.
Although the ocean is infinity,
the stars—the visible, at least—are not,
and they confirm you sail the course you plot.
Of course, direction is a fallacy:
a point is any point; that much is clear.
The charts we use are fanciful and false.
They promise us horizons we won’t see
but seek, impelled to trust the aching pulse
that guides us to our pointless finity.
will end without arriving; you will sail
the blue-black sea in search of land and fail.
The sea is shoreless and there is no land.
Acceptance is the only wisdom here.
Although the ocean is infinity,
the stars—the visible, at least—are not,
and they confirm you sail the course you plot.
Of course, direction is a fallacy:
a point is any point; that much is clear.
The charts we use are fanciful and false.
They promise us horizons we won’t see
but seek, impelled to trust the aching pulse
that guides us to our pointless finity.
