“The way that can be spoken of is not the constant way”- Lao Tzu
Here you are in your chimerical disposition
creeks shallow and simple to follow.
Here one cannot create, or find conclusion;
there is no system.
Though you have bequeathed all arrivistic tendencies
for omnipotent bliss and ubiquitous rest
and can dance upon snake-scale
sage-like through a honky nut,
attempts to broach your most genuine
masquerade fall in a heap.
In this language
I struggle to see your limbs.
Non omnes omnia pussumus:
we cannot do everything.
Supremely patient beside rapids
I observe the clouds in me change
easy metamorphosis, easy
our only gauge of time is
Poem by James P. Quinton
Thanks to Westerly, 2005