The Question I Would Like to Ask a Shaman Now

Not how to fly.

Not how to hear the messages on the highest hills.

Not how to discern good angels from destroying ones.

Not even how to find the poetry.

But how to get back safe from the night-shade,

Night-vision intact, tucked poems in my rucksack.

If I answered my own question

It is to attend each occluded step

Beware the accidents of descent

Keep a constant vigil

A stern metallic grip

Holding fast to bread and water.

It is not to flinch at the knowledge

I have to climb down lonely as I climbed up

Fabulously alone.

To use each herb-word, each verb-root

Because the only thing which unclouds my solitude

Is language.

It is to find the courage to leave the allure

To return to the softer shore

Of the lovely dayside

The tidy fireside

Clean cups, stocked woodpile,

The written book, completed work.