The Line of Return


I am stricken (how insubstantial is breath)

I am damaged (how light the colours of the mind)

I am alone (how inconsequential one life)

I am no reason (how heavy are tears)

I am not going home (how cruel is recall)

... lightly, lightly, nothing presses, nothing ...

I am losing (how did they think I won?)

I am undoing (how did I come, if not to go?)

I am vacuum (how did I not leave long ago?)


Travelling a line of diminishing return
scales unbalancing: one basket high - light of luck
one low - soiled baggage, other people's dirt

there is no more compensation in movement.
Here the heart slows, brain grows numb
coldness cuts hand and eye and all parts die.

A winter sun is not strong
and on these slopes so high
with no good air, is there hope of Spring to come?
A Glass of Pure Water
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