The man walks along the lake,
His hair and clothes wild, unkempt.
He’s lost all that he could take
From life and love, and the attempt
To understand the meaning of I.
The waves wash up to his naked feet,
As if to urge him once more to try.
Where the horizon and the skies meet,
He sees himself, a constellation,
So far away, fleet and improbable,
Drunkenly spinning concatenations
Of entropy and incessant babble.
