always there is this departing, this separation,
of rain from cloud, leaf from branch, wave
from sea, heart from throat,
clumsy words from these unspoken lips.
i depart from fire and ash, returning
to this root and stone:
i am left with this cluttered poetry,
this aimless rambling bird of haphazard feathers.
why is it that i tread a daily path toward some heaven,
only to depart those gates, returning again
to this vacant longing and restlessness,
slipping into a dream, waking, setting forth
on my daily sojourn, trying to remember,
learning to forget?
what part of it is missing? what sense of self
has also departed which i find lacking?
behind which gate, and with what key?
why can i not get the words straight?
is my heart turned inside out, or is it
my enormous head that bars the way?
why must this skin prevent me from erupting
into pure flame? when will this form
rise into its conflagration, an incarnate
carnation with carnal petals that spring
from winter's ash?
the ceaseless sea waves to me,
i ripple back, departing her door,
and i die with each wave,
rearranging the stones and dispersed time,
sands that sink by the hour, and still
i am left with this cluttered poetry,
these scattered shells, wordless words,
this departure due to arrive
according to its daily schedule,
returning me to my self.
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