Actually, the water I loved and so many
seagulls,
The harsh salty smell, they all
mourning
The eyeless souls bereft of their fathers -
Well, fathers are the first items to go out of
stock
When the market is up -
You know, ‘t was the deep of night, midnight
maybe,
When she went into labour:
The sky but a campsite of sorry screams,
As the moon was shunning the birth
They were forcing on her,
And believe you me I saw them,
I saw the campsite -
Trees, paths and creeks are my family,
No, afraid I’ve got no kith and kin,
Afraid I care not for big cities,
Those feral passions that carve my limbs off,
Afraid I can’t hear that voice, that song
When green or blue yield and surrender -
Hey, hold on, look, they’re rambling
Through the roads, the red-soiled groves,
Why, where, don’t ask, they were born
To love the wind who rattles our tents,
To be in love with intractable suns -
Well, I can’t keep up with them, can I?
Certainly not, that’s why I lose my wandering
prophets
And my landscapes always
leave me behind.
Ghosting in the Rearview -- K. Ryan Henisey
