Aporia & Circling, poems by Len Sousa

There have been limits to what we’ve seen, of course.
Eyes only stretch as far as distance allows before features
start to flow together, flattening what seems so tangible.

We can never know each of the odd shapes at the end
of vision or attempt to answer for what others may
make of them. We can only say that cartographers, too,

have limits. Islands which appear with the dash of a pen
and dozens more that sink into the quickly-painted sea.
Who accounts for these accidents? Testimonies misheard;

intentions misplaced. The troubled translator navigating
in a squall of spilled ink and fallible memory; enduring
those constant tugs at the inner ear—reminders of every

impending error. Still, standing at our bows, we gaze on
these distant isles and insist on squinting: desperate
to see each wave breaking from shore to breathless shore.

I’m always in the habit of looking down
When I walk—as if, staring straight ahead,

I could miss something happening just
Below. But what can my feet ever tell me?

Perhaps that these shoes, so well used,
Have soles worn past their dues? Yet

It seems inevitable that a walk should come
To this—a moment of quiet epiphany,

When the chance points of my departure
And my arrival turn in on themselves and

I realize I’ve been circling the whole time.
Maybe it’s a healthy sort of feeling to trust

This walk, having started with something new
In mind, might still end like all of the others.