The Crossing

Is it wrong, sacrilegious,
to want this life so much,
and for the musical words
to come, like raindrops
after a long crossing of sand?
No water, not for a hundred
miles. Scorpions, pigweed
by the highway when we
finally reach the pavement
scoured by wind. And the dull
buzz of the wires overhead.

The tracks of the box turtle
cross and cross, forming
documents to prove
the loss of days and weeks.

I wish I had slept beneath
the yew for luck, for an hour,
just to dream of anything
except the escape of everything
I love, bit by bit. And the fear
of waking after nightfall,
alone in a house full of papers
and bones. Oh please
don’t leave me while I sleep.
Keep watch against shadows
and pray. And someday
I will do the same for you.

 

Kyle Kimberlin
Creative Commons Licensed

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