Absolution is all that I, a journeyman, Seek. On maps, in tales of sailors, In fables of nomads, in my dreamings Where I see others tied to the arc of moon, Sleepwalking, chanting, “Absolution, Absolution”.
Is there a place, set on a hill, at the end of an echoing vale that bears this name?

Bradford pears now wear lampshades, drunk on light of the stars. Something flows in them that flows in me. It is more than the wind. It is two rivers, blue and green, intersecting, on which I am approaching Absolution.

My griefs are bees tied to strings Streaming from my body. I speak In the flute and the melisma. These are the ores patterning seams of rock, on which rain falls and washes my atoms to Absolution.