A language of afterthoughts
pursuing the moment, events
swallowed in ritual.
These obeisances, rituals,
proper marks, our prescribing
objects and forms of piety, as –
let us worship the prophet’s
shoebox, his glove-shadow:
all so many farewells.
And keep moving. Otherwise
the moment is vacant and free,
evading us. Lately I found
reaches of time, open lands
to be crossed in the long step
between one and the next moment.
The forests gather themselves
never to be cut there
between eyelash and eyelash.
I grow roots in myself
that I am any place, rooted
and moving, anywhere.
Soon may I learn
a language to speak to myself.