innate people

i have waded through the ancient nile
and driven north to the end of roads.
why She asked and i told
her about it in a letter.

not everything
is a beginning, i write.
worlds wrap their way around
the old, withering bend,
a ruinous, curving blue
that is sky and sea
and also nothing, always
the same, circling like the ancient Eagle
around the fact of death.

there are people whom i love, but
such people are ideas with blurry faces,
silent reverberations of promises,
responsibilities above all
to innate, though misunderstood, goals.
about such people little new can be learned,
i think, but i write that i have traveled far
that i might see them soon.
i will see.

and this was your canada
She smiles across some time zones.
i shut off the light and through the wall
stars wink at me a billion years ago
as i put down my pen. leaning,
steadying myself on the wall i find
suddenly only air in a world of doors
that open and close themselves.

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