Missing Belhaven… wrote a poem.
At night, dead sleep, living walk
the tiger lanes which lollop up and down,
painted by the orange streetlamps, voided
in the dark leafy patchworks. Houses bear ghosts. Here
or there an oil-wick burns behind glass,
a lonely axis mundi. Rainwater shines
under steps that fragment its radiance. Ever the green
hill behind me, beside, before,
ever before. My steps turn toward her,
the palace of lights, away from the crouching
domes of an old heart, old soul
that whispers to a thousand dead sleepers.
I am not dead; I die not here:
the air is too heavy to drown in,
and I am too meager not to float.