Eight hours in,
in the wrong direction.
It has been soft and skyless,
a sense of not moving or ending.
But this day came up behind me,
and below—
I want to know what you fear, so I tell of me dying—the lakes so deep
they cannot freeze—where I was born.
You see why I speak, but you carry me to the ocean.
Beneath all that crashing, this terror
you say
is tender and yours; that you would wait until the moon draws you in
like the tide.
With the salt I taste
defiance on you, letting me in
on what you will not fear.
—closer now, and farther,
your Atlantic gives way to rises
and faults, familiar and unnamed,
but you showed me the words.
We truly know something, you and others
said, when we remember it in dream. And so,
as with your other tongues,
I am dreaming in it
as I descend.
26 February 2009
No comments:
Post a Comment