No compass or map
points my route or direction.
Sensation is all:
the shape and sound of feeling.
I learn what I think
by choice of symbols, meanings.
I invent my world
as much as it invents me.
A baton like a pendulum
swings back and forth.
Across the universe it moves
in perfect time
Leading an orchestra of stars
through measured space.
A score arranged with such grandeur,
I merely hear
Its echoes through the walls of sleep—
how faint, how far
While my heart beats to the rhythm
of earth's passage.