Some southern ocean.

It is amazing what wind brings to the world.
Breath.
Movement.
Stirring
high up
in trees.

A long travelled breeze.
Here to see hair lifted.
Made light with spirits.
Baptism.
Exhaled like hot breath from some southern ocean.
Sun-governed beaches lapped by rabble rousing water.
Exhausted.
Panting.
Thrown up moisture with hands in prayer.

Here is your answer right here at some distant place on the earth.
Cold air against warm shoulders and worth, moving in the wind.

Like dying could be cast off and flung into the air
for some strange distant person to hear,
who might find amazement at it.
Who might call it worth.

The mask we put on mystery. #oldjournals

Entitled. But bearing no born title. How can it be?
Without name, to know thyself, is to glimpse mystery.
The black, dead surface of water
plainly seen but not seen through.
There is revelation here.
Like secrets in that deep black.
Rerisen rapture and near.
Close under the surface expression
behind faces
within titles
emblems
symbols
meaning lurks.

Ruthless
toothless
embittered old truthless
monster, meaning.

We are beyond all other words and more,
definitions, names, the titles and handy ways
we live like we actually know we are, or aren’t we.

How to smile into the face of a stranger pretending
she knows him when he made sure she never could.

One name.
One superficial rippled line constituting a surface
is not enough, neither is two, or three.

Is that what we meant?
Entitlement.

Or is it just
the mask we put on mystery.