Everything We make

​Everything we make
That reflects
Who we are
With our moods and dialects

Comes from the source
Of the soul and comes
From the littered streets
Of decaying slums.

They call each other
Without cease,
Until their longitudes
Meet and release

Light: of being alive
Or of being—being,
Or of wisdom, of 
Far sight’s seeing,

Or of singing, or of
The “is” that emerges
And that shines. And 
The blue sea surges

And reaches the sky
With sapphire glints.
They leave indigo traces
And cobalt hints.