- we seem to conspire of our own accord at times.
- at times we find ourselves drifting toward one another,
- mysteriously brought round to tell the stories of our families and tribes
- binding us to the raw, uneven exploits of our drunken elders—those Gods—
- and to the glorious promise of our children.
- or, if we are orphans, joining us with one another
- in churches or temples or ashrams or mosques or soup kitchens or bars,
- sharing the ideals of our heroes,
- Buddha, Christ, Allah, Yemanjá, Marx, Nature,
- sports, sex, social justice, politics.
- but there is more:
- outside the window the horizon is an illusion,
- the moon fills and moves, the tides swell and retreat,
- a cosmos simultaneously expands and contracts.
- and as if one with the universe
- our chests rise and fall with each breath.
- we know all time is occasional.
- we know a new year begins with each moment,
- like a fat squirrel forever in a tree,
- testing the strength of the weakest branch,
- seeking a buckeye nut.