Night walking

I

There's a beauty to the bridge,

how the lights disappear

into the pillars.

 

Quiet in the black buffers,

I move like a slipper through

wet leaves, thudding streets.

 

Windows muffle a muddled brew

of season finales, well-worn songs,

frosted chants and cheers.

 

The balm of dissolution

glides with me, chafes

against the grain

of bodily need.

 

I couldn't stop

this singing act of living.

I couldn't shape myself

into a certain form.

 

 

II

There's a distant forest,

a scattered pine expanse—

soft needle beds in autumn,

the slow smell of sap.

 

Spiders, starvation, all hungers

banished as I'd dissipate

into the trees, waiting to be found

or not sought.

 

 I'd live bodiless, drink sundrops

and pondmist, the greets of

wild birds, mice and shrews.

 

The sight of spiders, even—

sharp new hungers, even—

the great awakeners,

the hollowing of all old feeling.

 

Red berries in the bower;

how I'd look at them and love them,

how I'd pick them and eat them,

 

the gleaming fruits and me,

sick as sunken pebbles,

bright as snow on the leaves.