At the mercy of the wood warp br of indecision, between the famine br within and a compass without range, br I still dance in a sea penciled with despair br for I have learned to float br by not always trying to fly br with every dandelion self that gusts. br br In this field of tenderness br like some classic gesture, I catch the moon br at its crossing and wait br for a tide steeped with the naming br of ecstasy.