Ore

or
the pattern that connects something not all that original, I am
like borrowed lines and borrowed thoughts and sullen days born with dignity
or
collected by rain water and dew in the early morning dark where silence meets the Tao
or
a residue of mountain dirt eroding between storms on the lee side of my human anxiety and foreboding about my inevitable death, the cancer dice thrown aloft, and you know, i'm just another driver in the truck next to you thinking about god the all
or
the skin on the back of my hand aging and wrinkling as I speak and leading me down to the ashes, abyss and grass of someone else's peaceful cemetery stroll, in peace settled confusion, that it's not you dead yet
but someday it will be won't it and why and was it enough?
or
more natural laws that dry up slowly and move with the tides and moon and the gravity of Venus which has
pasted me up against the scattered matter and light of countless eons and seas of exotic worlds on the back of a giant seagull crying into the salty wind and shitting on your car
or
the relative frame of reference from this moving body breathing and living as one with his time, skeptical that all the truth in the world really does add up to one big lie
or