WEBVTT

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This poem is called "Circles."

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There are secrets known
only by other secrets.

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I take them for what I am.

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A circle of chain with no key,
held by the middle, breathing.

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There are routes in the
ocean clearly marked.

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I've seen them on maps.

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Follow them if you can.

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Light at its source
could be only brighter.

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And the sound of
rain on the window

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and the sound of distant
birds, swell a circle

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to its ripest form.

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Where are the limits of song.

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That I may try to break them
and going back to the center,

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pass myself coming out.

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I want this poem
to be imperfect.

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The edges are rough
that stopped the rub.

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A stumbling dance,
an erratic wind.

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A doomed man, planting trees.

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