Loss of direction is a welcomed sign

when it doesn’t bother breathing, the view

that turns you by turning toward you,

electric lines of fawns playing

here without you, knowing you’re there.

The sun clicks in the catch of throats,

gentle questions without words

where slants slant a sense of passage,

with marks unmeasured shifting off

into rustles, close or deep, never found.

This is the closed-mouth inhale, open exhale

with moisture, fragrance and taste in a swim,

channels of colors, stirrings that unfold

lines, tunes, themes and touches,

rich but brief, and not a chance to fossil.