what straddles morning and
milks color from the dawn,
rushes down empty streets
into coffee-shops for kicks-
what intrudes on conversations
overhears movement and
the slightest alteration of self.
what I love most is irrelevant and futile,
but precious and precise-
what I crave most is tender and chaotic,
stressful and shy-
the way you looked at me just now,
burned a destiny in me, or maybe a destination.
you reminded me
by putting one foot in front of the other,
I have a journey to end or to begin.
what ties me to the day or the year-
to earths or heavens