This poem is called "Circles."
There are secrets known only by other secrets.
I take them for what I am.
A circle of chain with no key, held by the middle, breathing.
There are routes in the ocean clearly marked.
I've seen them on maps.
Follow them if you can.
Light at its source could be only brighter.
And the sound of rain on the window
and the sound of distant birds, swell a circle
to its ripest form.
Where are the limits of song.
That I may try to break them and going back to the center,
pass myself coming out.
I want this poem to be imperfect.
The edges are rough that stopped the rub.
A stumbling dance, an erratic wind.
A doomed man, planting trees.