Incoherent 2

The heart beats like footsteps over endless dirt,
trodding where circumstance has etched out a path.
Lost in the cluster of darkwood pines,
where rotting logs ply the inheritance of human wealth.
Like a lining of pictures against the wall
of friends, of wishes petering into memory,
like a sewer, a blanketed sky, that curtains
the future from a weary gaze. Or that ladle of rewards,
that plate of contentment that breeds the automobile rhythms of happiness,
that extends the cliff of suspended days,
diving like seabirds into the waves, these frothing days.
Thronging with sounds,
spilling into ears like a mapped echo, but dissipating like the richest scents of flowers into the spring-duned air, trembling over
meads and brooks, with that withdrawing trickle,
unsated and content,
would this river be a doorway
to the depth-drowning sea.