her last golden rays
kiss unbridled, salty waves
Perhaps a bird does not conclude
it will fly or it will fall; it flies, falls.
Open to loneliness, what darkness
can I enter alone? Resistant
to loneliness, am I not moved
to seek the light of support, of the known?
Open to learning, who am I
to see or say for another?
Resistant to learning, am I not moved
to teach others, to praise method’s stasis?
Clearly we are not birds, though we
fly, fall. Clearly we know where we’re headed.
I am made up of lies,
of partial-truths, of bone
and belief, of projection
which lays out before me a path
of both comfort and discomfort.
Yet ask me who I am or what I do
and I’ll tell you, not because I know
but because you’ve asked,
and I don’t want to appear
don’t want you to get
the wrong idea.