Reflection upon reflection upon
the edge of the echoing tide
looping, whispering itself in
the murmur of moonlit waves and
endless, endless, what is
an end but a beginning turned inside out
and revolving, revolving around
itself like a spiraling thought grounded
in the ungrounded, ungrounded truth
that is not a truth but an illusion
cast by the wavering light upon
the water's surface which is
always there, always here, eternally
present in its absence, absent in
its presence, like a song without
notes or a dream without sleep, and
what do you see when you see
beyond the surface? Is it yourself?
Or is it the ghost of a memory
that never was, that never will be?