Point No Point
Laury Egan

Did I visit this place once,
on an afternoon that skittered
between sun and rain?
I remember a desolate beach,
stepping on smooth eggs of stone,
past cedar logs lodged
like crowbars in the cove.
Did I photograph this scene then
or snap landscapes when asleep,
while walking in a dream?
In the scrapbooks stacked
against the wall, no pictures
of Point No Point exist.

Sometimes I wonder where it is,
this spot that defines futility.
Can we stick a pin in a map
and locate what might not be there?
Or, perhaps, despite seeing
where we wish to go,
we see no path; sometimes
we see a path but no destination.

On days when I feel lost,
on days when wind carries me off
to distant lands of restlessness,
on days like this, Point No Point
is where I am.