I am downwind from the crossroads,
adrift on the offside a thought.
I hear the language of midnight calling
where there is no second choice.
A vine of clouds snake twist over a
blue gray sky. Rain is far off, though
moving closer within the halves of minutes.
Here at a back stairway any door will do.
There are fields of voyages full of the invisible
until the steps of intent release.
It’s the next corner I think of.
Roger Singer 