The poetry is beautiful and rare,
expertly read, exquisitely received,
but I am supposed to be
away, I feel
called by the babbling of the stream
echoing deeply against the darkness enveloping it, drawn
by the lightning
bugs hanging above like strings of Christmas lights, or else entranced by the sparks
floating toward the sky that lies always so
vast here, full of unseen infinities. I sit on the edge of life,
the walk into the dark
that must come next.