I grew up here, near here, and walked these sands
  as thoughtless as the waves; I chased love young,
  and drank regret, and burned through seasons of
  revolt and gathered mastery with fists —
  as fate rolled on, and washed new times ashore.

I brought each dawn an offering in gray:
  a meretricious emptiness set high
  upon an altar made of lightning whelk
  and carefully arranged to suit my mood
  which was, too often, on display in full.

The pandemonium of onset hope,
  the fantasies, less carnal then oblique,
  were here arrayed, lived out, then set aside,
  as I took every path except the straight
  and bruised myself impatiently enough.

Tell everyone who comes: the dream is real:
  it’s just that dreamers work with faulty tools
  and scan horizons for what isn’t there,
  near where you are, near here, and everyplace —
  near here, near where you are, and everyplace.