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In the elephant field tall green ghost elephants with your cargo of summer leaves at night I heard you breathing at the window Don't you ever think I'm not crying since you're away from me Don't ever think I went free At first the goodbye had a lilt to it— maybe just a couple of months— but it was a beheading. Ghost elephant, reach down, cross me over—
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I saw my soul become flesh breaking open the linseed oil breaking over the paper running down pouring no one to catch it my life breaking open no one to contain it my pelvis thinning out into God
I am twenty, drifting in la chalupa, the blue boat painted with roses, white lilies— No, not drifting, I am poling my way into my life. It seems like another life: There were the walls of the mind. There were the cliffs of the mind, There were the seven deaths, and the seven bread-offerings— Still, there was still the little boat, the chalupa you built once, slowly, in the yard, after school—