All he owns tied in that cloth
sticked and bundled over his shoulder, blind–
he refuses to see his path ending
because dreamers only look up, chasing
cloud forms and ignore gravity; the earth
pulling them close as they savor the sun.
If angels fear that molten sun
he will lift its spots, folded in his cloth
like souvenir stones, picked far from earth
in his dance with stars; a bright that leaves blind
anyone who dares look too close, chasing
that embered, smoking trail, deeply ending.
Not all drop-offs are endings,
if air allows his tread, as did the sun;
because all opens to a fool, chasing
what flies from his grasp, that motley flag cloth;
patterns floated on wind, dizzied and blind,
spun and blown until they rest on the earth.
I have walked the greening earth
with him, foreseen those trials that are ending,
told in finely-inked cards thrown for the blind.
He has shuffled and cut for the spread. Sun
covers him in the center of the cloth,
which means he can catch what he is chasing.
But what is he after, chasing
secrets until they stumble, sink to earth
exhausted, wrapped in watercolor cloth;
faint, transitory camouflage ending
and burned off by one who danced on the sun.
He carries light. It cannot leave him blind.
Truth this hard should leave us blind.
Only fools seek what is hidden, chasing
dark out of shadows and into the sun.
These are secret things, on heaven and earth.
To tell them all would be a poor ending;
a covenant broken with a torn cloth.
Blind by choosing, he skips above this earth,
chasing a rainbow that has no ending.
Sun can be shaded, but never covered by cloth.