Sometimes I long to be the woodpile,
Cut-apart trees soon to be smoke,
Or, even the smoke itself,
Cut-apart trees soon to be smoke,
Or, even the smoke itself,
Sinewy ghost of ash and air, going
Wherever I want to, at least for a while.
Wherever I want to, at least for a while.
Neither inside nor out,
Neither lost nor home, no longer
A shape or a name, I’d pass through
Neither lost nor home, no longer
A shape or a name, I’d pass through
All the broken windows of the world.
It’s not a wish for consciousness to end.
It’s not a wish for consciousness to end.
No comments:
Post a Comment