Sky Paths
Geese arrive or go,
nowhere becomes a somewhere.
Straight lines crisscross the sky.
A history of headless contrails
are trekking over
a borderless yonder.
Under
a brightly birthed daylight
eyesight cannot settle,
but skims around
the unseen tips of fleeting wings.
Peddle bikes
with their hunched riders
whoosh past.
A streetlamp speedwalks
from one glazed eye to another
blurring a roadmap
in a plodding mind.
Whichever way I go
the sky gets there before me
ever ready to redraw
that which has
just now
occurred.
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