The Journeyer

Published in North of Capricorn - an Anthology of Verse 1988

Ultimately, all our battles are fought

with gravity, our tenure only as a

falling body, an equation

of inevitable collisions.

Ultimately, we feel the weight of our shoes

and the conspiracy of planets.

Even our names begin to drag

and sometimes even the soldiers

move with the patience and tedium of chairs.

Despite this, I know that pieces of sky

occasionally float to the surface,

whole topographies rise like moons.

And so, journeys are planned

maps examined.

Seductions move through us

weightless, smelling of fog.

I know of only one route

and all my clothes are badly made.

There are numerous stops

and numerous signs of decay.

This landscape persists -

even in the early hours

you can hear trains.

You dismantle the scene without pain,

pull it apart

the mechanism scattered across the floor

until there is no word left

to describe your death

and the moment

when you will finally

sink into the sea.

poem by Jeremy Tager