“I become
                        more forgetful than the most forgetful.
              The years slide in silence
               And I can never return.”
                        --Anna Akhmatova

I.
How far is away from here, please?
What bothers me most
are the freight trains macerating the air
with their night-long shrieks.

II.
I am sick
of self-loathing:
why not the as if
of happiness?

I don’t have
to pace 12 selves
and turn, firing
my leaden words

to inscribe their
chittering names
on my breast before
they boomerang.

III.
How to prevent the stumble
before any dream anxiety
is ground into daring trust.
How to induce myself once
again to let loose longing.
How to gather back
all the day’s early dazzle?
I’ll stir the fog to kindle
my migrated body.

IV.
Keep staring things in the face:
climbing ladders and pipe-dreams
to raise the flag of primal
adventure over a day’s trespass.

Keep stamping on forbidden grass:
smothering the fanatical warble
to advance step-by-step salvation.
Keep clapping hands in ovation:

catching the sound that splinters
personality into this choir while
winds growl all night
to scatter the sentinels of footprints.

V.
The night-long shrieks
as the freight trains macerate the air
are what bother me most.
How far is away from here, please?

 

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