Gazing beyond the openings of the southern hedge,
the slow tides roil the strand with worn shapes.
Strange, like a memory.
When you begin to arrange the things
and call them
this and that,
you start to forget
that the world,
and the things in it,
have no name.
Variety is an illusion born from oneness.
Difference is the mask of the faceless.
No thing exists without a name
nothing in the universe has a name.
Wherever you stand,
the world finds purchase.
Move, like an arrow shot from no bow
and you will see: the earth has no end.
All distances are one.