What is the best poetic way to reach down into a well – no fallen graces –  and come up with a light emitting from the tip of the index finger, showing the way to where camels rest on their front knees, carriage on backs, and a path uncomplicated: so simple in following, leading straight to water: so true in properties, quenching thirst: so minimal in craving, ushering to land: so vast in plainness. I have been  like warm smoke from cooling wood, knowing what never gets spoken is the point of drop from the hand that let go, leaving me to find the way –  of no theorized routes – to your ungripped nature. *Previously published at Whispers