where is destination

What do I have but old age
a dramatic entry to stereotypes
accumulated languages of dead trees
flying fish caught in sandstorms.

Days advance carrying experiences
arriving at terrifying surprises
I don’t have a key to the house
outside I stand in a thunderstorm
do not hide, shrug your fear,
I say to myself,
spread your hands in jubilation.

Is it reality or fiction?
I’m looking for poetry of fresh languages
a balance of “dread and beauty”
full of spice and promise.

Can I be a time traveller
be a “native of the mind?”

July Mountain

We live in a constellation

Of patches and of pitches,

Not in a single world,

In things said well in music,

On the piano and in speech,

As in the page of poetry-

Thinkers without final thoughts

In an always incipient cosmos.

The way, when we climb a mountain,

Vermont throws itself together.

note:a poem by Wallace Stevens. Quoted from his book, Opus Posthumous