Estranged
Having spent my life
estranged from myself,
I’ve long arrived
in an easy place,
in comfort and at peace
and estranged from the world.
I could choose — right or left,
something novel, someplace law
— or dying in
a star-ditched ring
with some pretty,
lissom thing,
or vie for acceptance
in officialdom.
I chose both,
mad as children,
and no longer hear
you outside there
or myself over here.
The portal closed,
the air is cold
outside
and in here.
The quantum of the thing
was this:
In two places at once
to breathe and exist
but in bridging the two
I only found two
warring sides
of the same set against.
I imagine the air
is cold as ice,
out there,
and doubtless very nice.
In that marsh lies
a fine goose egg,
larvae in wait,
birds overhead.
And inside,
an unborn
life unmet.
I imagine that river
is searingly cold
over ancient play
and memories
the measure of
times that have long gone under
city ramparts still left standing
from some past way to be.
The faithful are with us
as we won’t be
in all our ancient memory;
our duty forgotten
and locked away,
we’re strangers to the world.
