Preparations

I am getting used to passing the time
in the solemn company of my wood beams.
Perhaps weeks, perhaps years
in which I have been witness to the world’s determination to name the unborn,
to possession and
to abandonment,
to preparations coming from planning uncertainty,
and to my own weakness.
I have not become better
although I lit candles and prayed
and I mattered.
I scribbled more question marks on waiting room tables than I gave answers
and
I felt the humility of a man proven wrong when
I hoped I had done enough.
Somehow,  each time I rebelled
I ended up cleaning up the wreckage,
packing, unpacking,
forgiving everything
but not myself.

701

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Restitutio

I covered my face with black ink
Gathered all my possessions in one small bundle
And set fire to everything
At the top of the hill.

Look this way
I waved my burning hand
As you walked in your imaginary map
With a preoccupied stare
But nothing disturbed your pace,
The door shut behind with an incredible force.
The thin walls echoed.

The island went silent again.

My half shut eyes were able to reach
Forward
At the seed of the poem where god left
A freshly baked bread
Just for me.
The white crust had my initials on it
But I could not bear to eat it
In case I had nothing else left
For the rest of my days.