From time to time I must leave that
which I know,
the
daily routines of rise and come and go,
the
floorboards that have been worn to sand,
the
stairs that connect a firm grasp of life
to
rooms of sleep and drifting, dreamy weather.
I
leave solid footing for a flippant, waving hand.
I
must walk across a cold field of brown heather
past
a fourteenth century Scottish castle of gray stones
that
have been knocked into crooked, crenelated teeth,
an
empty scull sans brain sitting on the gray jetty.
There,
I wait for zephyrs to turn foreboding into fair,
time
and tide that will lead me to a less familiar where.
The
slim horizon is a mistress I must divide,
ocean
from sky, piercing virginity waiting to die
so
that I may relish the other side of should or would,
climb
mountains and drink wide rivers running
from
a range hidden by a mist of mystery’s cunning.
I
must speak with grasslands and converse with pilgrims
who
evolved during Pangea’s prehistoric slide.
I
will speak with Ulysses, pluck the lyre into bacchanal,
and
stroke the nape of Penelope’s ivory neck.
And
when I have sampled the lexicon of constellations,
of
Orion chasing animals always beyond his reach
or
weaving deep desire from locks of maidenhair,
I
shall return to my well-worn life of hanging hats in the hall
and
listen to my chest rise and fall, rise and fall.
From
time to time I do this because I must,
because
the double helix unwinds into permutations
irresistible,
wanton, wild, and rare,
magnets
that sing, pull, and draw me into wanderlust.
~William Hammett
Site Map
No comments:
Post a Comment