This one is like that one

a metaphor of my knowing, my knowing, is like
the sea not stars, and reflecting starlight--not reflecting,
strewing out on beaches, a spinning, a filigree, fancy as nothing
is fancy, as nothing speaks with such fine thread that it is lost
in sea waves, like kettledrum blasting notes of absolute being, of lone
being, my knowing

I know myself out of love
love, absolute, love is the sea we ride, we metaphor we
sythesis we crisis.

why is moderation so right,
the flat sea becalming us?
why does it stare down on us like nothing
between stars with no lines?
why does it feed on metaphors, why silence our kettledrums?

Our knowing is inside us:
we were gods, were like gods
we are stars, our only touchstones.
we are like a faint light on the surface of the sea, not reflected,
but spun fancy as nothing is fancy.