Walking alone, my toes sinking into the wet sand
of this primordial beach, the sloshing pull
at my ankles reminding me of the dark certainty
of the womb that I can now only barely
imagine—that second when I slipped suddenly
into the hands of another and bawled my first
barbaric yawp into the warm pulse of the night—
a moment as precious and as easily forgotten
as the multitudes that follow. Each day begins
with snatches of birdsong, the smallest flicker
of eyelashes, a tempting laziness and a yearning
that I struggle to name and understand. While
eating alone, like a dog, in stately Vienna
and sipping what the waiter calls the best beer
in the world, I listen to Louis Armstrong sing
of the saints, the saints, and as the sax blows
heaven ever closer, I tear the sweet lamb
from the bone, the light blazing off the silver
and for once I don’t think that I have wasted
my life. Hopefully, I will feel this way again
at the hour of my death, when my feet
turn blue, when a flying ant buzzes, trapped
between the blind and the window, when
I am about to fall or rise into who knows
what mysterious space, aware that I alone
can do this, and must, aware that I cannot
defer or control what will be—my eyes
now opening for one last glimpse of beauty.
Poem
Alone Again
Andy Kissane