From below the brim of the hat

Years ago I wrote a card
to a dying friend
that will never arrive now.
There was a look-out
and up there I was nothing
but the mover of my hat.
There you are again,
voices of all those I left.
Packing, unpacking, packing.
And my bent back is forming
a crooked circle.
A scent of gasoline is swept
across the beach, and I seem
to crawl from beneath my hat.
Some day I will
have knocked on every rock
and none will have opened.
Small, bloody ankle.
It feels good to say, The dream is over.
And to go on.
Seagull, quiet wing above the brim.
I never wanted to have the neck
of a bull.
And thanks goodness I haven't got it.
I wanted the sand
rubbing between my toes
and it was this wish
that I shared
with thousands.
Gladly I find myself again
in a story of waves
and of ship's engines
as before when I wrote kneeling
sensing a poet within me
who wrote kneeling as well
sensing a poet within him
who wrote, kneeling on his tiny bloody knees.
I took my bundle
and left the deck.
Stones remained,
up to the very last moment it will be stones.
Foam that, without leaving the slightest scent,
falls apart on the sand.
How often did I stand below the door
below which people depart for ever.
Not that often, I know.
And still know what I talk about.
Companions of my fear,
you who are turning your back on me,
not waiting to put off your coat.
The last time I saw you lying.
I pull open the drawer
and the card slides towards me.
 
 
 
 

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