I'm closing in on an open verger;
I can already taste the fruit on trees,
can hear the birds sing amidst the verdure
do-re-mis floating in the gentle breeze:
I must stay awhile here if I'm to write
the epic of my blood, the manifest
movements of my people from strong to right –
must remain just outside the garden's nest:
I am a new pilgrim without an age –
not timeless, just meaning "asymptotic,"
as my point must forever mis-engage
from the hardline of actual knowlege:
And so I'll peer into the clearing's mouth,
but my vision commences further south.