The Trying Crutchman

"He steers himself away from what is haunted."

He can't. He's the haunting, himself.
Every pitch, tar, and caulk line seems
As if it might still leak meaning
In the next random storm. He can't
Sleep. No common sense beads on him.
He's immune to condensation.
Under the moons that follow him
He composes hymns to the fog.

It summarizes wandering.
He can see that he can't see things,
That things can't see him, that the light
That sometimes outlines distinct truths
As if they were clear entities
Bright and apart from each other
Sometimes turns in all directions
At once, more brightly to obscure.