I can not pretend to be

anything other

than fond of wandering.

Some days lost,

others found.

And whether or not

I’m in or out

the control’s never mine.

In fact, I could be anyone

anywhere—unstuck in time—

with a Pilgrim’s knack

for the ordinary; weak

without a hero’s heart.

Vulnerable enough indeed

to master the art

of a lonesome traveler’s fart—

that he is not, nor ever could be

alone in the universal thread

that is but one common mind,

one common heart, that is

but one common life apart.

That in this very minute

and unlikely space in time

two separate set of eyes

can gaze upon the diamond sky

and see,

one identical night,

alive within the ether

of one identical light

separate, yet one.