Flowing to the Sea (second try)

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.