The walk has happened many times before;
it is remembered as always across a barren, crumbling
terra—a place of imagined lunar desolation—and led
to a point of source. Strewn with rocks red
and volcanically broken, the dust clung

to torn tennis shoes, it's path promised
and yet did not hint at the exact
form of quenching at the source. You
could only go on
believing

as so many trusts of journeys do,
it calls for marching not so militarily
as purposely, allowing the flies and mosquitoes
    to feed, letting
the morning sun burn and dry, relinquishing to all
the drawing as any soldier does
to the promised outcome, forgetting the
    now—the bombs—

believing.

I am in that walk now,
to a source, an instant. I bring only my fears,
for as with any true soldier, the fight
has been for myself and then for you:

if I live, so do you.

I do not like dying unfinished;
although 'unfinished' was always the known
end, I have trusted—

believed—

another soldier would save us.
I long ago abandoned him in the attempt
to conquer him: Time, and therefore fooled
myself; he was not my partner. How true
that Time does not pass and that men do...

Seated beside this pool of limerance I am
summoned back. The consciousness I will
leave has not fed nearly enough; I am far
from dry. I am sorry

believing

that my rate hasn't been steady.
It was what it was for the pleasures I took.
This, too, is not Walden's although he spoke
of it...So I am here listening. Blue

jays manage to bark at each other;
it is nice to be discounted. The short tumble
of mountain water, the source, breaks with silence
and yet creates it—a better
white noise. I haven't heard a leaf
fall, but they do. I haven't heard
the brown baby crayfish scratch the bottom
rocks, but they do. Here, I don't have to
believe,

I just know. That has always been
my nature, in and out of people. I found it
by believing, listening to myself
and ourselves, not following
the directions of teachers and fellows; only

natives

seemed to care that I would possibly one day
discover this; as parents, though, they had their own
dreams, too. The sounds about

this pool change only occasionally. A babbling
clunk occurs with the passage
of a generation. There are too many life cycles
here to count, too many

natives

to distract our small perceiving organs to be
recorded complete; I still keep on.
Seeds are a favorite; they land from and by
the course of the elements and then move
to a reasoning known only to themselves
in an attempt to grow, to be

native

to their source. Why have I never landed?
It seems a proper goal, to land
and prosper. And I do prosper wherever planted,
but the roots have never been further than arms
length; I could always pull them up
and tumble

native

to the wind, native to the water.
The group I'm in has started talking about the light at the end.
We all, now in the summer of 1987, have seen so much,
too much death, that it is habit teaching ourselves
what to ask of it when it visits
us. It isn't coping that we are
expressing; we are past dealing
with death. Since as a group of young men
we have fought for so much across streets,
across towns and state lines, that we are
living death, learning it and labeling it
so as not to forget life. Yes,
we aren't coping with it
for it is no longer out there
nor even alongside us:
it is us

a part
just as this lover has been

a part

of many, just as the ripple of this pool has been
one of many. The walk goes on thus;
paintings will mount as

parts

of the picture, the life. It has been
lucky to be gifted so in these parts
of the source; joyful

to be a summoned hand.