From brine that comes and goes
Across hot sand
Into hills and plains and groves
My shadow tells the time
And ratchets around my toes
…
The mist falls from the ground
And plays where it arose
Then heights shrink underfoot
As my eyes dry by what blows
I blink and turn
And see the shiny skirt
From under I was born
The air where I have come
Stretched and silent
Quiet screaming tranquil peace
I wonder and I wander
How high can something go
The Wanderer thinks in prose
…
Sit and meditate
The idle to create
Ever higher lows
…
The Wanderer thinks in prose
Politically Romantic 