| TURNING TO GO This desk, bottles of ink, the lamp with green glass shade, dark wooden box of pens, I would walk away from these. This body, my blue eyes, the great trunk and limbs, brown and wavy hair, I would part with as with ash. The house, the dripping pipes and thoughtless, silent wires, the windows that look onto nothing but night, I would leave to fall and rot. The town, the dark inscrutable hills, salt air and sea wind, railroad and freeway panting and every grain of sand, I would forget, forgetting wind. This silent house, this night cold with bright stars, this life of measured sand and flowers, I would turn from as from tears. But you, brown eyes, frail voice and fleeting breath, I cling to, lean against like a thousand year tree and I am dying in your shade. |
| (c) Copyright 2000 Kyle Kimberlin |
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