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
