Like tiny wings of flies

 
or lacy fins of miniature koi, I tell 
my eye doctor in a dream when she asks 
what kinds of floaters I see. They move 
in erratic patterns looking for the exit 
sign, remembering a park by water 
shaded in sunlight and boats rocking 
in the harbor. She asks if I can 
follow them, if I'm capable of 
postponing my own need for clear 
navigation for the sake of walking 
a labyrinth—pure uncertainty 
wallpapered with visa stamps 
and lanterns left by other pilgrims. 
Is there any other choice, I say 
just before I wake, feeling as if
I might want to be born again.