On Off Course

When one group wrote of the course,
They meant, by the course, the way,

While a group on the far side
Of their world meant, by the course,

Prose, words, the word of words, voice.
This course, that way, the wind’s voice—

Their streams course down the years’ tracks,
Flow through how lives ought to live,

Hound lost souls down long paths that
Seem like they might lead to light,

Lead out once the race is run,
This stage done, course at an end.

But of course, it’s not like that.
The way has no ends, prose has

No close, words on words go on
And on. It’s a loop, a noose,

At length a rope heaped in coils,
With knots left to be picked out.

Pick a spot. Snip the rope. Whole.
Sit where you like to one side.