Each time he took a walk, he felt as though he were leaving himself behind, and by giving himself up to the movement of the streets, by reducing himself to a seeing eye, he was able to escape the obligation to think, and this, more than anything else, brought him a measure of peace, a salutary emptiness within…by wandering aimlessly, all places became equal and it no longer mattered where he was. On his best walks he was able to feel that he was nowhere. And this, finally was all he ever asked of things: to be nowhere.

tender as you are now, tell me how
five hastily scratched lines,
broken and blue on your wrist,

bent your perception, lifted your head
and made your heart sing,
sing of grace, of favour?

"opinionated as they are
it is my hands that have held hope-
(those hands?)
(yes. the same hands that stay hidden,
always between salvation and lust)
ordained for a sunset, i

asked god if he keeps score-
yelled at his sky and watched it crack,
angrily kissed the ground and all at

once, i felt the tongue of love,

whispering in the fisted breath of a lily,
orphaned and new and i knew

in my bones along the
curve of this spine that i have
worn out, tracing origins and time that

i held hope, and it wasn't holy
no, it was human, down to earth,
dirty from its nest in the ground and i knew

in-between these half-sided smiles
in-between not existing and proving i do-
i do i do i do."

tally marks of grace