Truncated

I travel this world widdershins

My head cocked to the side

Forty-five-degrees-askew

A confused mongrel

Trying to make sense of it all

Fingertips grazing all within reach

Like a blind man

Feeling for the inherent

A sign from the universe

The velvet rope of an exclusive club

The rust-pocked surface of a mailbox

The wispy hair of a newborn

The roughhewn marble of a tombstone

The shingled roof of a vacant doghouse

The smooth, sloped hood of a camaro

Dust covered, satin ribbons of pointe shoes

The latched, leather bound, diary cover

Just when I’d given up on divining verity

I run my fingertips across my stubbled cheeks

Tracing the trail of tears

I blow the sawdust off

This sequoia stump

With my damp fingers

I place my thumb

On the ring of your birth

Stretching my pinky out

To the ring of your passing

Lifting my hand I see two dark circles

Two simple dark circles

That hold within the span of your existence

I place my thumb on my birth ring

Lie down on the enormous stump

My pinky hanging out into the nilspace

I straighten my head the forty-five-degrees

And close my eyes…