Of a Mutual Bright Burn

When I was young 

I loved a black sky,

cold grass and the swirl of sunrise—

and those things still, as an old man,

but now my toolbox and machine-cut metal,

or a chair and a pill and a drink.

My parents divorced after twenty years;

they said, "Son, do well in school."

"For what?" I thought;

“A good grade never made her look my way.”

I admit, I'm a sleeping man,

searching for the roots of a dark Eve.

I would say I'm sorry to my mother,

I could never be a Navy man,

and an apology to my father,

I could never be a scientist.

I may have traded my birthright 

to a revenant, or a delusion.

I'd say we should tremble at our existence,

burn till we ignite another,

and sleep like old ships—soulful; 

I believe there is a mutual bright burn,

a source of all life and madness 

sought by both aborigine and pilgrim.