A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
I don’t know what a self is maybe it’s all the fear and hurt
collected in a life, a shield of scar-tissue where, beneath,
the true heart lies, destitute, held up in two hands, offering.
I’m told there is an end to suffering, and that is to let go
of craving, and all else that binds us to the earth. Gladly.
I would with gratitude be nothing, my body going on
without me until it can’t. If it were not for love
that often overflows its host and sends a fool
once more into the world to stumble, it would be easy.
All I know is that I hurt, and am tired of anger and shouting.
Who is it that shouts? I don’t know him. Let him go
on his way into the dark he makes with each step,
with each cry. Have mercy on him, he is lost
and I follow at a distance ready to lift him when he falls.
Copyright 2018 Doug Anderson