Though the where of it
has slipped away,
the welcoming light
(a tiny bulb nestled
in a frosted glass bowl,
a glowing egg cradled
in a ghostly hand)
filtered upward through a black, steel disc,
an unwearable hat, smashed flat
and poked about with tiny holes.
The pattern on the screen overhead,
in focus, then out, circled slowly,
a wheeling constellation hovering
over the wayfarer briefly paused
at the portal opening on a teardrop sky,
an artifact installed long ago
for the pleasure of people long gone,
size, race and gender unknown.
The traveler passes anonymously by,
crossing mysteries unmapped,
caressed in this moment
by warm nocturnals
scented by untended roses.
Draped in flowing robes
soon to be shed,
the wayfarer comes
to the end of the sands,
stands naked at the edge,
toes drinking the lap
of the primordial sea,
awaiting whatever will come.
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