mirrors

In any dream, one could quiet-up a quay—
    Be it this dirt, our moon, that star.

            Some dare see
                Themselves in the revelry
                    Of sea-rapids-tried,
                        Or in the placidity of a perfect glass;

                I find me in time’s craggy pass,
              On the lapidified face of alone…
            In summer-storm,
          Atop a worn-but-upright stubborn bone.

      We ought own why we are—
    As purpose-purchased by whatever way.