When you die, you will look back
upon the motley, hurley-burley carnival
with a tiny pentagram of wry compassion
in your open, trusting eye
from your orbit on the sunside,
in the mystery.
Weary of games, faces, chimerae, numbers & tests,
you may groan inaudibly, deciding
how to return, where to reenter,
as old airs rise and fall in memory.
The motive no longer logos, but an
almost-caught salt smell in nostrils,
an inner compulsion, a launch into the somatic—
Take peace. You persist.