In the Watch of your Feet

In the Watch of your Feet

I read the life of a monk and wanted to walk
on a market road with lanterns
and speak to the awnings about where I could rest
my voice. I sang above the reach of my eyes
and forgot the street, that people stared with twitched mouth,
pressing their ideas to almost speak. I would rather have a conversation
with a tree, laying against its trunk with my voice
given away to the one who can carry it. I could travel until my self
was forgotten like a child first seeing flowers -
I have been with my self for as long as I am
and I have tired my eyes in my sight -
now I can only travel in the watch of your feet.

The Will (draft)

The Will (draft)

Between the thickets of grass, I sit in my testing chair,
pausing in conversation to relieve my words
from desire - it is the stillness
in me that watches the wind.
My speech wants to move,
clinging to the hand -
when will I walk out
my thoughts with silence?
I had dreamt that going home would be quiet,
hearing the empty steps
of my ambition on a clear road.
The fixtures of the sky told me
to look down to where I stand
and throw my questions to a still wind,
that the stems of grass would not stir.