As at the Far Edge of Circling

As at the far edge of circling the country, facing suddenly the other ocean, the boundless edge of what I had wanted to know, I stepped into my answers’ shadow ocean, the tightening curl of the corners of outdated old paperbacks, breakers, a crumble surf of tiny dry triangles around my ankles sinking in my stand taken that the horizon written by the spin of my compass is that this is is not enough a point to turn around on, is like a skin that falls short of edge as a rug, that covers a no longer natural spot, no longer existent to live on from, the map of my person come to the end of, but not done. That country crossed was what I could imagine, and that little spit of answer is the shadow— not the ocean which casts it— that I step next into to be cleansed of question. But not of seeking …it as if simplified for the seeking, come to its end at this body.