Kant touts good will, but Einstein swears by relativity.
I’d bet a week’s wages on Einstein. There is no certainty.
I feel fruitless as if I’d swallowed an entire grapefruit.
I am mouthing unknowns, because there are so many of them.
Here, where I walk west into the Pacific, having left everything
nowhere, where it rains, where I fill my pockets with stones, not shells.
I can’t, but I will, I always do. I feel empty, blemished, unable to enter.
Grey sky drizzles as I slog along at high and low tide, forgetting
how to count pulses, how to add up the pluses.
All the words hung to dry, briny air offers the succinct phrases I need
for starters, holding on to my story until it delivers — vertex or breech.
It chooses for me. I didn’t say it had to be good.