There’s no point starting what you can’t finish.
Then all the little stories looking back
walk out of frame and beyond the mirror,
going for a stroll while you still have legs.
Little story here, little story there,
all your once upon a times long ago,
all the lovely women, brotherly men
in populous city, wilder country.
If only you knew what you were doing
the stars would realign and you could see
where you are going if you can get there
hobbling or striding, child swinging his legs
over the swimming hole: Throw the kid in
to teach him to swim. Gotta start somewhere.
So the sun’s out, perfect weather to run
if you still had legs, through the thick forest
naked, ground animal who would be bird
or bear, anything not to be yourself
as long as choices exist to be made.
That’s not even a story, but the truth:
a man becomes a deer and shits at dawn
by the road he has been walking for hours
looking for the apogee of Lobo
Mountain, looking out over the valley
without a mask, following the lightning
piercing thunder, the rain beginning to walk . . .
How can you know where you never were?
There is one who can tell you who you were
to her. She walked naked among the horses.
Breasts swaying. Gypsy beauty. Your woman.
(28 June 2011)
copyright 2011 by Floyce Alexander