Monday, April 26, 2010

emptied. (rest.)

That was the year
when we crossed the salt-water:
cold on my ankles
and sand wet underfoot
I wandered in.
Walked tentatively
and then plunged,

went with feet so heavy
from the desert that
I stayed on the sea-bed,
for years, holding my breath
and almost bursting
from the sound.

All the sound
under the water.

When it was time, I opened
my eyes, and you opened
the waters.

all fragmented.

Survey the wild walls
blown high
over one’s head—
not so far from
where I first began.

Wander here with me,
on the ocean of dark rocks
and a fate that calls you,
leads you ever deeper
into the mouth
of night
in a conquered terrain. Else,
come. Hold the hand
of one who protects you,
leads you by quiet waters.

See. I will follow the moon,
just once

as she wanes,
and surely waxes; I will hide
in the soil, and then
grow back. Emptied
of seasons and cycles
except for your own.

I am travelling with the birds,
simplified. Clarified
that the marriage was all wrong,
that at this time of year I belong
to another, made
at one
with another.

I’ll breathe and fly away.
I'll wake before the birds
of lovers’ morning.

I will give myself away
to the autumn light,

if you’ll take my life
and make it
then I will be yours.

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