born onto this touchstone
my path, conch-shaped
spirals begin infinitesimally small
expanding only with growth

father never taught me
to shave
or to walk like a man.
life simply arrives
in blood
in the grinding of gears

lessons of fog
art and commerce
man and woman
what was all,
almighty

every brisk second
consists of countless events
instructive in their balance
vivid and fleeting.

the opening of the eyes

I pull on the clothes
of a good man.
envisioning that treatment

and the cool breeze of
what will be
on the outer coils.

© Tom Watters 5/28/08