Beside himself besieged
by wild confidence & cultish rapture he went
walking as if it would answer anything, meanwhile
the wind running airy hands up his thighs in search of god trapped
somewhere in one man’s sweat & the birds tracing ancient names on the skyskin, goosebumps, a trickle of water
from the gutter, the unattainable edge of life
he has spent years careening towards & then further away from
& secrets the wisest mystic will never understand pulsing
liquid from the mountaintops & flowy white
snow doesn’t even look cold from a distance, heat
in the air, along his flesh, the warmest day in months & it should be winter; all he knows is what he isn’t going to do, there are possibilities rising like smoke over the horizon, messy shadows sprawled like stray clothes
over the sidewalk, & the trees, the specter of death, when his father died he felt the winds turn although he was far away in Alaska’s dark reaches & in the snow even the silence went quiet,
he didn’t know what to think, he still doesn’t,
this place is just as quiet sometimes, the seasons move in dark clothes roguish & sometimes it’s as if even God is afraid to breathe, every great force standing around holding their breath waiting to see who will speak first & him at the center of it or maybe its very furthest limit, unthought,
alone in the bookstore where he first learned to look at people
& where life turned itself over to unmarked trails in forests revitalized by fire— the man in a red sweater whose name he will never know
& who he looks for around corners as if a miracle would ever happen for him at the top of the stairs in a drafty old dream & he straightens himself up neutralizes his eyes oh hi he says I was hoping I’d see you