I suppose all stories have some kind of resolution.

the hummingbird only sees the reef through glass
to her it is like driving on the highway
while the fish stand on the dotted white lines

her world is a vibrance that to a fish is only pain
somewhere travelled begrudgingly
when absolutely necessary

the flowers cannot remember the flood
for those that might are gone
but the bees remember winter
and the trees keep chanting, Om—

a confusion of faces and places
everything merging like a wheel
turning even as it rots even
through the bog and
over bodies and across the ice out
to the edge of the world

and up from beneath, over the edge,
the messenger without a message
arrives with his mouth open
to receive

The map was drawn long ago,
its symbols lost like its makers.
There are many paths and one destination.
But there's a secret. We redraw the map every year.
Every year we try to imitate perfection,
and we become the new perfect.

And we send them out along the trails
with packs and tins, to find a new way.
They find so much. But there is never a new way.
We already knew. But you can't teach everything.
My God,
what does it mean to love someone
when you are capable of loving anything?

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