Peering though a port hole,
where I drop a few minutes of my time
down the cliff, to make space for a few more,
and waiting for the sound of impact
that inevitably disppoints,
despite its weight.

And I will revisit this place throughout my life.
But never in the same location.
There's always been a demon to slay.

Aging bark, pitted from the years,
reaches, like a tortured soul,
toward the source,
begging for the mercy of forgetfulness.
If it comes, how will it know?

The soil hardened a while ago and nobody saw,
save for the faces on the placards
and the girl who almost caught the bird
but will forever appear joyful at being so close -
that is, assuming she didn't just release him.
Without knowing the frame that came before,
I can never be sure.

My mind slips, but the haze lifts
and I find my way back from the vista
without turning to look.
The light is different now,
as the blues set in, faithful as ever.

If there's a stop valve for this fountain,
I have not found it, yet.