Into the land of youth, westward, to the place of starting again,
cities of gold, on the coast of promise--mysterious cure--a mirror's
thrown down, and so without luck, without reflection we stop.
We have come to the beginning, the finish of the country, itinerary
worn out, facing the surf--what sailors smell as land. We ask detailed
questions. None of us can tell, so we tug on each other, "Come.
In this lull, one at the tide line stoops to pick at foam and weeds;
another builds a fire. The intended didn't arrive and there is no new
plan. As the sun lowers, we face the mountains, consider what we have
passed, and fall to dreaming, to scrounging.