Aarrrgggh.

Now this thing is just going out of control. Well...look.

Why do we travel
if no one
knows where we
came from? Falling
from arches, the
canvas roof of
the caravan sweeps
over road, effaces.

What is our ruse?
We follow the
trailing finger of
God, our sextant
the thumbnail moon.

Why do we dare?
Our caravan road
winds toward the
sun, burning us
pink and swollen,
frail as babies
too soon cast
from the womb.

Where do we
dwell? In paper
patterns, painted houses,
crooked doors, gates
that sing open.
Crooked patterns,
chiding parrots,
parents
and the faces
we make for ourselves.

I feel like there's too much going on. I tried the technique of moving the questions to the tops of the stanzas, and I stuck to that mostly-three-word-line thing. But I need to stick to the caravan and the road. And I'm bringing home in at the end, but we still have to be looking out a window and seeing those horses with the bells in their manes, the dust flying up from hooves and wood wheels. You know?

Furthermore, if there's a sextant in my poem, I better know what one looks like.

Sigh.