Anam Cara

Exiled Clay

I am not sure you

live anywhere, no

cord of clay holds

you moored.

The air is brittle

and cannot settle

near your attention.

Your cell has

no cloister, for

abandon anoints you.

To what place

belongs the red bush

of your blood?

Who could travel

your mountains of dream,

glimpse gazelles

limp towards dawn,

see flowers

thirst through earth

for dew,

and hear at least

the sound

of swan’s wings

bless the dark?