Writer, Poet
No need to tell me what kind of luggage
you’re carrying or how far you plan to go, or even
how long this particular journey
will take. Whether you cross two borders or twelve
is of no consequence to me, at all. Don’t trouble me
any further,
on that account.
Spare me the details of obstacles
and missed connections, of all of the blind spots
you encounter,
in the road. Likewise, don’t send reports
of how many flies have entered
your tent or how love has
flickered so elegantly, so unexpectedly,
in your path.
You will sell your soul along the way.
No matter. You’ll buy it back, and it will fit better,
the second time around.
If it’s cloudy all day where you are, it really makes no
difference to me, at all. Just call me
when you get there,
before the willows bloom, before your
temperance blooms.
When you snag your net on Poseidon’s statue, so be it,
let it rest there,
for another to fetch.
we stay long enough to remember what we came for
