I always have the same issue at the start
as at the end: it is impossible to be lost here;
and I say things like the concept of lost
is a prerequisite to the concept of found,
knowing full well I’ve had pizza delivered
three times this week. I understand pleasure
is a funnel and a funnel requires two openings.  
I understand comfort is a bushel of pear.
It is easy to mistake the song of crickets for rain
and easier still to think we’re drowning,
but most often I simply want to go in whatever
direction I happen to be looking.  Some maps
contain deliberate errors as a sort of signature
and this is how I try to sign everything.  A fault
drawn through the center of town.  Fingers seek
the thinnest part of the membrane in order
to break through, but sound also curves
around the ear.  The way the brain appears
to operate under the same principles
as storytelling.  For years I took comfort
in the laws of entropy, until it was explained to me
that chaos is endlessly predictable.  Some mornings
I wake up and remove all the letters from my name.
Then I make breakfast.  But there I go confusing
meaninglessness and immortality again.  
In water stones grow smoother as they age.
Nothing else in life works this way.