The birds eat the pansies as soon as they open,
and I almost smile. Perhaps I never cared enough
about these earthly things, about desire.
The sliding of seasons, coming and going,
youth and age. Sailing away sounds good to me.
Going away, always leaving. If I cried,
perhaps it was in relief and joy.
The lights on ships, light in the sky,
the lights of Patmos receding. All the people
Strangers, people I do not know. A truer sense
of being than lovers and friends.
It is good to let go. like all of me
pouring into a poem or dance. Leave takings,
strangers, transfigurations. Not perishing,
but sailing away as I did that year
from Lesbos toward the coast of Turkey
and seeing a small boat near the shore
with a lateen sail, as if all the centuries could
arise and fall back. Only the flight of the single
spirit saved. Only the spirit having a heart
after all, and not what eats and is eaten away.
`from All of It Singing, New and Selected poems,
(Greywolf Press, 2008)
