Hunting oblivion in the pain,
trying to outrun my shadow,
my heart a parable of fire,
outfly my own feathers,
this plumage of flame,
a heretic’s death.
I’m wallpapering the sky with starmaps
to restrategize my destiny,
this saltlick of a life
that fell like a crumb of sleep
out of God’s good eye
when I was created to be obedient
to this dream of you
fondling the last crescent of the moon
as if it were a trigger.
Pull it if you must.
Such sorrows afflict me tonight
and it’s already late
and I can hear my own panic in the labyrinth
scratching at the plaster
like a mouse in the walls
and the darkness is closing around me,
a deeper devastation
than I have the heart to assess.
Tears and anger, water and fire,
all day I’ve been summoned
to the radioactive blaze of your absence
and forgiven you everything
as my bones flare like phosphorus
and I know the futility
of a fire hydrant on the moon
standing by helplessly
as its only ladder back to earth
burns.
PATRICK WHITE
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