I've walked
I've been at the losts
I've been at the founds
The taste of cold coffee
is as familiar to my tongue
as that of sparkling wine
The ugly smell of old sweat
in my backpack
a sweet companion
on the road
to unplanned encounters
in unknown though
fluently spoken languages
laughing out loud and childlessly
exiting rattling to-do-lists
which steal your friends,
your sleep, and your capacity
to go into the woods,
light a fire and read
the book of its flames -
there are phoenixes out there
who guide your delays,
your missed connections
- making you feel zen
and murderous -
your endless journeys
only to arrive
at the next
there is as much meaning
in the tracks of the railroad
as in the tracks
of the buzzard
the top fell of its mountain
the knowing has arrived
