On Leaving


When I pray,
I pray for life’s undeclared questions.
Will it be difficult to walk into fire?
At the lagoon, where we used to swim and skate,
I admire the October coverage,
this brown and golden-hued afterlife,
with all its deceptions of surface.
Beneath us, the earth-hungry
transformations turn.
Yes, there is relief
in one’s own emptiness –
how nothing is left over,
with nothing to gain.
Where do we move, if not
towards stillness?
And will it be difficult?
At the water’s edge, I place my hand before me,
begin to push it through,
separating the muck and leaf rot to enter
into the cool body,
the quiet body,
body of ink and of silk, of
completion, of blindness
and touch –
the place where nothing again
can ever separate one
from one’s
own life.

I cannot tell you what it is that I prayed for –
The question slipped through me at the moment of asking.