I am waiting for something to start,
Something that started long ago.
“You are not listening,”
He said, “for what is to come,
you are listening in order to
Remember what was.”
— what is, what can be —
Every whoosh, hiss, chirp pulls me West.
Beckoned toward mountains and streams
And Mother Pacific herself. Calling me toward
Something I fear is a mirage.
It’s curious how nothing pulls me eastward.
Not even the departure board at O’Hare
Intrigues me with it possibilities of cities and shores.
Rather my eyes land on the hubs of Santa Fe, Portland, Sacramento —
Fingers of possibility gesturing toward a Future Moon.