Bindi

It’s almost disappeared, or no,

it’s gone, this mark that’s been with me,

on me,

since being six or seven: a single spot, a forehead point,

stately and perfectly in the middle,

this ever-present third eye, transcendent,

searching out and seeking in,

exactly placed, this marker of my way,

this representing of a or some purpose,

now receding, recessing back

into undifferentiated skin.

What does this mean? What

is being made known?

Is my purpose now achieved,

my self now stated?

Is my purpose now achieved, part chance and happenstance, part

impelled quest?

Or, is this an acceptance by the eye

of a failure to deliver

as I should have?

Will I know? Will I ever know?

Is this just another ambiguity, Delphic,

never to be resolved or only distantly, almost endlessly

Or, is it release from purpose, whether gained or

unachieved, and a chance to swim,

to enter each day and just enjoy the light,

just feel the ripples of experience,

the innocence, where both are one