INWARD PATH
Inscribed over the door to my room
are the origins of language
because the animals inside are hiding
at the ends of the earth and what guards me
is the traveling wind in the horse latitudes.
I keep going back to those dream places,
West Marin, the Galapagos.
I’m not sure I’d wish for simultaneous lives,
to travel in time, to be in several places at once,
the world is a path inward.
I can see beyond the wall of space
because the tiger inside me never sleeps.
The saxophone growls and hisses mellifluous
as the headdresses of Egyptian Pharaohs
inside the study of time is another small room
where dwells the places of the heart.
2/15/93
CPITS
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