The Wanderer

for Rob

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You are never gone long,

In the morning they’ll

Look and speculate

On which direction you

 

Have fallen, the ways

Your feet take you

When the moon is ripe.

It could be you were

 

Entranced by the lack

Of promise in days,

The immutable principle

Of death by purpose,

 

And they may yet be

Calling you; But you

Continue as before,

Even the bones of

 

Your feet uncertain,

Hearing, yes, but

Not words, or emotion—

Rather the instances

 

In which these sounds

Are grounds for departure.

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