Saturday, 5 April 2014

3. Journey

You board the bus, the train,
the rollercoaster--it doesn't matter.

What matters is you're moving, at last,
yet lashed--the bloodcell beating
in the throat of the gull.

Between you and the sea there is
skin and plummet; between here

and where you're going
you need not say a word.

Tumble into limbo, wrap this rug
around your trunk, roll all
the way to the crook of the hill.

Crush daisies. Decapitate buttercups.
Be a Sufi dervish tricking the shackles of time.

It doesn't matter. You will get
where you are going--the crook
of the hill. The stubborn city. Home.

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