to the From

Glen Gould was my harbour pilot this morning, beckoning me to a network of secret byways that all moved to the From, not to the To

gondolas of light plied the waters ever in, ever in,
splitting the space between the eyebrows
and hanging bright neuroned ciphers like patio lanterns
on every side of every current being pulled Home

thoughts and ideas were starved of oxygen the closer we got to the From;
the ciphers morphed and split and sired not just family trees but entire forests
where music and poetry and intuition reigned

and as the currents quickened
and the From shone like daylight at the mouth of a cave
surrender begat surrender
and Gould started the next Opus