Driving Across A Bridge, Somewhere in California

The sea is constant.
Only it is human to change
And shift, the tide of a person

Plays out in our words,
How we move, and
When we live.

Yet all else is true to
Their forms,

Whether the bridge which spans
Some foreign gorge,
The construct of my thoughts,

Whether a blue bamboo shoot,
Its forest host,
The meadow-wedded yellows,

The dew on the fronds of the foam,
Or the unending grasp of gravities,
The dark hand of solid space.

There’s perfection in equations;
Nature contains only ever enough.
Consciousness of these things,

I am an exclave to the sum.

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