Everywhere

I sit on the hard sidewalk, stained
with red oxide and dried up earthworms,
and the sun beats into my pores
with that weighty warmth that only
starlight can provide. And I ask,
where is my path? The path is everywhere.
There is no place that is not the path.
And a lizard skitters across the hot cement,
bobbing for a moment in its own shadow,
and we look at eachother eye to slivery eye,
I cross its path, it crosses mine.
There is no place that is not the path.