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In every egg and in each stonelies a key that's kept aloneby all these things that thicken life,stir the air, and stall the knife.

And all fresh eyes will find it starkhow a tree is not its barkbut looking later they won't findanything asides their mind.

No fate afore or fame afterno plan, no pen, no crafterno other way the world might beor new waves without the sea.

Quiet and loud are quite the samethere's little lost but the namethey share a key and should it turnthey'll just be waves. The seas churn.

There's just one thread to think these words,sing each song, and fly the birdsthrough many warps and every weftit gives all gain, takes all theft.

Two ripples ride the water andmake their marks upon the sandanother wave walks up the shoredoubles back and makes some more.

There is no point, no place, no endwhere it stops, strands simply bendand fall and fold and lie agapeendlessly to etch the shape

of every stone and of each egg;there's no you or name to beg.Left on the ledger of all thingsis a blank box. The void rings.

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