Friday, July 11, 2014

The Self by David Ignatow

Now I feel so far from you
like an animal leaving its kill
to slink back into the woods.
I'll be gone in an instant,
sad, the work done, the soul
in need again of bright feather
unstained ny blood,
taming the sun
with their beauty.

I saw you die in me
the necessary death
of separation.
We became ourselves,
parted from one another,
and off I go now
back to the beginnings
in a mess of leaves
and silences
when the leaves darken the day
and in closed fear
I worship an idol,
the self.

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