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I wake for the undirected horizon,
the rumbling gravel offshoots
that meander
and creep
through coastal pastures;
They spread veins, slow
like the waterdrops on my windshield
late last night.

During my miles
I’ve spied phosphene flashes, bright
amidst the myriad desert dunes—
No longer do I ask
if the sky plates are trembling illusion:
the heated ripples of air serpents
flowing under and over.
Instead I know this glint
as truth

That I will chase
until the velveteen pads of my feet
are more cracked
than the white salt earth.
Those calluses I can slough off
like sour specters,
to keep safe a soapbubble heart.

For while the path branches into rivulets
I need not fear.
When it disappears
I am not lost.
I shall seek a line—not a point—
and thus anchored
will pull myself along the thread
manifesting
like the patient rays
of a glacial sun.