In the dip of my
suspension bridge heart
lies a letter to my next incarnation; it reads:
The problem of Time is solved
by becoming, we are
Lodged between beginnings like
foodstuff in our teeth.
May they seek earthly things like spices and the scent of green.
May their harrowed orbits unravel and lay flat to dry; we are
like Time, consistent with Time, our materials
simply warped and rearranged; we are
Star stuff in chaotic alignment —
again, and again, and again.