What do you know of the deprived?
You’ve only begun to describe
by crossing vast stretches of desert by train.
What do you know of the rain?
Initiating a stream
filling the vacant bed
with cascades of thread
that lace together your straying thoughts.
What do you know of your end?
Will it meet you on an island
adrift of where you are going
and where you have been?
In Rome you were homeless,
in the cafes a stranger
falling asleep by the fire
before being awoken
like a pariah
and told you had to move on.
Always an outsider
and if there was folly
you travelled beside her
going great distances to behold
that which was novel
only to seek warmth and to borrow
a fabric inseperable from the pattern
you wore as if
the journey never happened.
Without realizing it,
you had been travelling all along.
The borders were formed
by a series of routines,
like a fascade or a sheen
over the comfortable dream of security
you were always shaken from.
Even still there is movement
through the crux of decision.
At every moment
the stark if somehow swirling
black and white of the liminal edge,
an unknown to witness
but never fully grip as you pass through.
You’ve written all of this
on the cusp of transition
between cities all seemingly the same
room full of strangers sipping espresso
spaced out just so
their own worlds have borders,
laptop screens, newspapers and magazines,
conversations soon to be smoke evaporating
into the backdrop of a life in motion.
Habits appear to be woven
temples to the still and the rigid.
Stuck in their fabric,
in their nets longing to be recast
like orphaned patterns
re-united at long last.
By shadowlight and long silences
you can be alone and without scripted statements,
no tense sentence of greeting or goodbye,
for no one knows you in nowhere.
Nothing to expect or respect
exept the slack in the lapses of thought.
No one to meet you halfway,
only the strange language of the wind
urging you to forget what you have learned
and to begin again.