Murmur receding and approaching,
wanting to touch, encircle
your calves.
Can water ever be sure
of its direction?
Imagine
the sea inside, wanting
to get out: one thirst
seeking another.
I crack
the hull of a fortune
cookie open to ponder
what of the future
settles at the bottom
of the cup.
In response to Via Negativa: Celestial Directions.