Directions

Directions

I'm feeling rather East today,

full of great cities and old beliefs,

convinced my head and shoulders

constitute horizon and my ideas,

the sun. People come to me. I

do not come to them.

Tomorrow, I'll be North:

severe, remote. I'll seize

all longitudes in one cold fist.

I'll make the needles

on moral compasses shiver

and spin. Whatever I serve

will be best served cold.

One false, contradictory day,

I'll try South on for size.

I shall be serene and anxious,

lethal and demure, exotic

and exhausted. I shall wear

a cape, spread tall tales across

broad tables, imbibe beastly

conconctions, let loose a stream

or two of consciousness.

In the end, like all the rest,

I'll be myself, the West.

Late and last, ragged and

recalcitrant, that's what I'll be.

The sun will come to see me,

floating lowly. Breakers

will bash the walls of the bay.

Shadows will have their say

when I am West at last.

Hans Ostrom Copyright 2008 Hans Ostrom