A child finds himself wandering alone
In a forest, seeing a campfire and, drawn to it,
Finds dangerous companions, thinks,
What is it I am afraid they will take from me?
Not the place of my birth, or of my rearing,
Or the place from which my ancestors sought refuge
Not the things I’ve inherited –
Blue eyes, brown hair, big feet and a guilty conscience –
Or the illusion of permanence that is itself
The only permanent thing I know.
My life? Such a fragile thread!
Always the world tilts dangerously
toward the brink, begging only
a finger’s nudge
–all it would take—
deftly moving aside
at the last moment
like a taiji master
a dance so subtle it fools
no one and everyone alike
the world does not end
does not even refuse to end
but continues out of indifference
–Wait – you say – it ended for me
and perhaps you – and I say
no, we are still here
even as we dispute the very
fact of existence, proof, you see,
of our errors
As luck would have it
I was born who I am,
propelled into wonder
and deep disturbance,
pushed from behind
by fear and tedium,
compelled by curiosity
to delve and burrow.
Shall I say my fate
has formed me,
or have I moved through Earth
not spellbound, but spellbinding?
No use complaining, no
point in shallow grievance.
Fate works not by force
but seduction.
Bright sun, cool breeze
Birds on the wing.
Feet, you paying attention?
New moon
Venus in her arms
I look away
exiles child 