From the dove’s mouth
the seed’s intimate explosion,
and once again I am hungering
for the journey,
the return to stone
away from your eyes
that fill my head
with their dark night.
How does one forget?
I have done all the things
adventurers are supposed to do.
I have stamped
the numbness of living geography
across my life,
I have lived the exile
of the unanswered question,
I have found that time
is a corroding tear,
the space between two stars,
and I am nothing more
then a train whistle
in the night
obsessed with some previous horizon.
So I’ve come to this place
rooted in the weathered sounds
of rain and crow
to study the geometry of solitude
and now I know something
about the migration of stars.
What of it!
I will always find you waiting,
barely visible,
like fruit in the fog.
Your sea erodes my name.
— Bob Rose
