From here on in, the truth by half.
Or by quarter watch, deck alert to the sucking sound of maelstroms.
No more gulfs or abysses–Coleridge, Poe, Baudelaire–out of whose depths something newly human might emerge, daybreak of pure distilled water.
At every hour of the day and night, at every precise point of the earth’s curve, the four cardinal directions are conjoined.
There is no more absolute north.
No more arbitrary south.
Simply this taste for a diluted sip of sun and night–ice cubes in whiskey or malt shimmering with the shared burn of the light and of the dark one tries to keep at bay.