A Trident Like Poseidon’s

You seek another mind for clues, and find it:

you’re sure those other eyes peruse an inward sea

which hides the news you need to breed

dimensionally through to views which might

effuse you into light:  provide that aid to greater

sight. The night grows late, and later, but you’ll wait

for something like a symbol in the ocean of his

consciousness to rise: a trident like Poseidon’s.

Then somehow, suddenly, you know:

there’s no such thing as guidance.

Knowing isn’t thought.

Guidance can’t be sought.









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