Choir (Dusk)
Such sailing—
a wind carrying
us where.
The day steers east
toward the rising
and at night we drift
against the day.
Make it plain—
Mornings I miss
my life the most—
All night I'm back
among the living—
what may be
my dead
since I've left—
stolen west—
Mornings I miss
my life—
my beloved's hands,
our children near-grown.
Or, grown
no more.
Morning's a thin bed—
if, can call this cold
cell, straw floor, a bed.
Here, men dissect
the night sky like the dead
& map our heads
with the dark & stars.
My stomach like
they say of leaves—
turning.
Some nights I want
to walk home cross
wide water
Others only to join
the shifting choir
of the closest river.
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