The Wanderer

Let me live inside a Still Life

and give me wine for drinking.

Divorce me now from Despair the wife;

Give her no space for thinking.

Can I take that glass of wine

and drink with hands that are not mine?

Might there be a gentle sway of cypress spray

amidst the sky on a smoking day?

And yet, what of night?

Is the world not in love with me tonight?

Does the moon not wink as bright?

Perhaps the breeze has changed its ways;

Its music ravaged within The Light.

Could I hear those can-can girls?

Or have they gone away with the world?

Packed up their silks and rhythmic smiles

and traipsed along for more than miles,

with no more sound than a Bugle’s twirl?

Has the morn slipped away, all on a whim?

Are its dewdrops not as slim?
Where art its leafs of pine, soft and fresh,

or that golden creeping of a hymn?

Shh.

I saw it steal through a door.

At the end of the wood and down through the floor.

Coated in ivy and kissed by moss,

It ran right through the cellar door.

Steal me away with it too

and I’ll tantalize my senses as I do.

Give me, please, some gin to taste

and honey butter for a fresher haste.

Slather my love upon the window

like a child’s prints to be left, 

for now.

Did you watch me rip the ferns

as I passed them, with my fingertips?

Running from the flames until they burned

to smell the wood be kissed by their lips?

Is the world not in love, or does it yet frown?

Does the mourning night not look down?

In proud despair, but awake at last,

do the Cats not move as fast?

Does the fish not smell as Crass?

And what of that curving current 

of gracious Play? 

Or the Needle which is lost against the itch 

of hay?

Still, it harrows me to ponder

oil spills

on the Break of day.

Might I weep for the world? I might.

But instead I run, as if in flight.

Through the trees and o’er the floor,

in search of that mossy, cellar door.

With hope in my heart and cup in my hand,

seeking Wonder as my new land.

And pounding thrice upon that door,

—to the cellar of my soul,

my chainèd fists are but a moor-

ing line to some-thing Foul.

Swells of music find-me-here,

and accost me in the ears.

Let me Rest for but a breath,

and lay down my Three Fears.

And while I Feel so deeply,

I think I think so little.

Like the wind which burns so sweet-ly,

before it turns too Brittle. 

But alas, I can search no more!

A warmth is on my knees,

I cannot find the mossy door.

or the sun from through the trees.

Might I spin round until I stop?

In that morassy, glassy, wilderned mind?

Spinning round as a wooden top,

as if this favour would be so kind.

Does the orchestra still sway 

be-hind me as it had?

Don’t I smell the cinnamon rolls?

Am I Guilty or am I Glad?

Do I still wish for a canary?

And pound upon my soles?

Or do my hopes grow weary,

and fill themselves with holes?

These things may be just the same,

and yet Life still has no refrain.

No sinking sobs upon the page.

No gilded gasps from within the Cage.

So draw me from the well

and You shall surely see,

as i rise and You do smell,

the Pit is filled instead with Tea.

When you pick me from the locus rake,

you must whet the locusts, too.

There, where Stonèd Plums begin to take,

You might look upon with dread,

and perhaps You pick upon me, dead.

But, lo! And listen: 

a burst of Sun in leaves anew.

And It points to there, as if It spake,

A seed doth grow askew.