By Dint of Dappled Motion

By dint of dappled motion, 

of passage on the ocean, 

(driven along a freeway's coast 

with semi-ease of flight) 

I found, I found 

on troubled grasses, 

in crick of neck, 

in mouth gone tight, 

I found a grove for my inflection, 

grief of throat 

and roving spection

I found it out the window first,

the distance offered trust

Past troubled lakes and bighted straits

of deeper sounds

with sadder banks 

I found my hiding place:

A copse of dappled Box and wood

A middle growth 

at river's mouth

where sediments of sand and stones

and lumped laments from fretful throats

Did nothing worse than stretch and bruise 

the sky that held 

one lone gull 

who grieves above the delta

But tires turn 

and I lost sight

refinding in the sounds my grounding:

stolen thumbs on bluer strings 

of steel strung between these trees 

in the grove, along the coast

(of all these wrongs that wring these hands)

that stretches thwart this sky of Right within;

I've found my port within me

it's the thicket in the storm

(though these storms are only thicker skies,

horizons I have torn)

And I am here

And here I find,

I find the growth of dappled space,

in crowded limbs and dry sweet-grasses

A birch canoe, 

an unheard fever, 

other things I find I face

I find,

eagerness of winded eyes 

exhausted on these sundry skies

but still more time for tired blinking 

(by which to see with light to glean

these motions I had never seen 

while squinting) 

I find,

I'm out of time,

my shoes are full

My feet so full, my head so braced,

I wouldn't see them lose their way

But I like these trees to hold me

I like my head embraced,

But these chest-wide palpitations

beat me (breathless) to my brain

Then I'm heaving,

hyperbolic, 

and my trees are all but limbless 

I've got to wait to cross these rivers

I need patience for those notions

I feel the call to motion

I feel, I feel

my tires turn

(I can only sit in trees so long)

I must blink to find my footing,

see my footholds, feel the folds

of choppy lakes that pass me by,

the pain of deltas at my side

(Right bed-side)

I find, I find

Above the lakes,

ease of wind

Above the deltas,

one lone gull

who, blinking, gleans then sulls and loses 

a dimpled thumb on blueless strings,

and unseen leftside shoe-shaped bruises

I've found a space to introverse,

A river to cross, and nothing worse

or better, because I found,

I find it 

all in dappled motion