Perhaps in drifting I shall brush
against the sharp edge of a blade,
and shall not notice.
If it's keen enough, or if
my body feathers light across
the steel, I'll feel no pain.
Sometimes I tell myself
I'm in control; I choose to fall,
or choose to complicate this simple
motion. And when the day is fine I
sit out in the sun and sip interminable
cups of coffee, and play tavli
with the priest. Sometimes the walls
are threatening in their whiteness;
I fear the tides that
lift me and transport me,
flotsam on an unknown beach.
Sometimes I tell myself
that I am here on holiday - that when
my time is up I'll go back somewhere,
somewhere far from here. I've
never managed to imagine where.
I am adrift, am blind; I lie upon a
hardness that caresses my uncertainty.
Sometimes a single slow syrinx
mourns something ancient, floating
on the thyme and oregano heat.
I am too young to understand it.
Sometimes I am too young
to be afraid.