As often as not
it floats in,
dehydrated, half-conscious

a Cruesoe made raft,
on Karmic seas
of wandering green waves,
Prozac-nurtured tides

in search of some
life supporting port.

Occasionally a rocket,
a hot-orange concussion

a shot from an
empty chamber
that fires anyway
if teased
and stroked

to targets that are
never destinations.

Eventually it comes
to words

forms, shapes, carriers
full on the fingertips,
songs from tracked
purple veins,
music of the spheres

tea leaves read
in fingerprints of wonder.

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