Truth is a familiar detour
Taken by tracks of searching thoughts,
Marking a common random turn.
We like to claim the sign is not
The direction in which it points,
The destination that it names,
As if directions existed
Without signs to insist the signs
Are not themselves the directions.
There’s a lot of stuff to explore
Out there, rare and beyond sensing,
Best discovered by random jaunts
Signs can track sign-by-sign later.
Later—what a lovely signal,
That, pointing in all directions.