I see the swan and the man with his white beard. The sea lies still. I turn to watch the full moon anew. Something is shifting and it’s not the swan nor the man. I am not breathing in this world. Boxed in a room
, men constantly move furniture as I’m drawn to the window. Their muttering is endless and I’d rather set my gaze on the swan. Something is incessantly twisting, and the wring in my hand parts for thin air. I cannot hold on to the abundance of unrest and illusion. But the parting clouds…oh, the parting clouds, and the man’s white beard hold me close. The window: I caress it’s simple frame carved out of the same wall enclosing the world. You too may think of the swan and the man, and you too may feel them just as your breath gains or looses dimension. I want nothing more than to feel the floorboard pressing against my naked feet as I lean over the proven sill and welcome truth.