My most essential being is
a ship sailing at once on
a multitude of intersecting seas
blown by winds of light, and of obscure particles
as yet but wispy possibilities in the dreams of physicists.
The sails are shoals of mirrors shivering
in gusts of thought and instinct,
soaking up showers of incandescence and darkness
from the mirror-shoals of people around me,
capturing flickering light from far-distant stars
and yielding to its infinitesimal pressures
before flicking it back across the cosmos.
The timber of my ship has never died;
no plant-ghosts attend it.
Nor do its still-pulsing intangible roots
add drag to my passage over the sultry waters,
from which its every reflection leaps into
quickened diffractions that
sail on fresh, subtly different courses.