A Compass and Cordated Maps

He's somewhere on a sofa in Kazakhstan
       surfing circumstance, prolonging the voyage
No Holy Grail or sacred vessel (that is me)
The quest is in the drift, being poured out in seeking
     until empty pockets necessitates a vocation
When Life is one big permanent vacation, pick a nation

Alembic like real love, like melting brooks of hiernal lowlands
Read other between the lines, summer herds in alpine grazing grasslands
Reach each other a bit too late, we were both too elusive to stick
       the timing off just a tick, selcouth autumn winds observed from horseback

You loved me in your way
        not long enough to play w/ my heart strings
Love enough to walk away f/ head dreams
The beginning schemes of Tellurian coupling
He sung me his secrets in a canticle
Store them like a fortune no bank could redeem or measure
         conceal in a sacred burial mound treasure

Under my mosquito net
        recall a night conversation under similar situation
The near consummation of consoling infatuation
I brought him to my home from a distant country
        lacked the spiritual eyes to see whats Here,  the final present destination

We mutual xenophiliacs who crossed paths on a wrong bus of a forgotten route
Dropped off the map of a nameless stretch of sand
Profluent wanderlust furcating passages, we nomads
A compass and cordated atlas
Dream of what could be from your Pazyryk Steppe sofa