In any dream, one could quiet-up a quay—
Be it this dirt, our moon, that star.
Some dare see
Themselves in the revelry
Or in the placidity of a perfect glass;
I find me in time’s craggy pass,
On the lapidified face of alone…
Atop a worn-but-upright stubborn bone.
We ought own why we are—
As purpose-purchased by whatever way.