not back again

Call me Ishmael. None of us Old Dead Tree | The old dead tree looking out over the Eden … | Flickr
Will leave this place alive.
This darkness will not end the tunnel
Our heartbeats illuminate. These
Steps close up the distance
From one wall to another. Like
So many stitches, out of time.
And in the near-light one hears
The sand-devils dance, rough
Rotating quartz on your face and
My hands. Call me,
Ishmael, witness to the obsession
With the seeing and finding
What was only a death. Document
The hapless ramblings, the ups
And downs and then to the bottom
Of the bottomless sea. Call
Me Ishmael, in a world of deaf deities
Where the spring brings snow, or
Maybe the white drifts are the petals
Cut down by the frost out of turn.
This is the place we’ll learn
How to name one another, and hunger
And thirst, and territories
So vast that the crossing alone
Will devour our life-times.

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