Motivated again by desire
to dispossess himself,
he strolls to an abandoned park,
a carboniferous garden of seed ferns
and lepidodendron moss,
with pale blue ice pebbles
and lined with horsetail sphenopsids
so tall they block
the late afternoon sun.

He walks in suspended shadows,
zips his poplin jacket against the numbing chill,
hesitates when he arrives at a fork,
turns to the right where the path narrows,
winding through a stand of fossilized conifers,
leading him across a devonian foot bridge,
icy marsh waters stammering beneath his feet.

Beyond the bridge he
leaps the remains of an ancient wall,
gropes in the early black,
leaves the path
and attempts to circle back to the swamp,
stumbles through bramble and briers.
Hands soon bleeding, he walks aimlessly
until he finds a moonlit clearing.

There he reclines his jaded head
on an indistinct log,
the soft lap of his secret goddess.
She sings to him of warm tranquil nights
and tidal rhythms
and rare jewels
set in lavender skies.