The world has a dark side
and a light side,
between the two
are strands of gray,
twilight, false dawns,
a silver cup served up as moon.
I did not know
where the light side went,
perhaps the eagles flew there,
too high for one to see,
or the geese in their graceful formations,
or the lone gull
who fancied the burning gold of dawn.
But I could not go
because my arms would not lift me,
and my heart was heavy with sleep,
with old dreams,
old books that lay unread
and wanted me to linger,
turn their pages.
But the dark side too
was cast in shade,
in old hidden rooms.
The lights had gone out long ago,
I found doors only by groping,
only by my feet
touching rug and stone,
and it was cold,
and woke me from my dream.
The blankets were not enough,
and the tears,
(why the tears?)
fell on my cheeks like tongues of ice,
waterfalls of silence,
and the only burning was my eyes,
as if they lit their own fire
but saw nothing
beyond their glow,
only darkness,
only fears,
and so the light side and the dark side
were too much,
one I could not reach,
the other invited me to flee.
But I was not alone.
Somewhere in the middle,
alone with me,
was myself again, or was I,
himself,
the boy with the faraway look,
the faraway eyes.
He was my twin, my knot,
as if it was not enough to be alive,
but to have the presence of another.
As if the world
knew I could not live anywhere
in its deepest places,
or its highest heights.
As if, with grace,
the world begged my forgiveness
and said, “You can not live there,
where I reach forever with a song,
or there,
where I bury my grief.”
But I need you anyway,
to celebrate my sides,
my horizons,
and my graves,
so I’ll give you what I know,
the sharpness of a razor,
the blunt edge of old desire,
and show you your two faces,
like those I wear,
and let you choose
which one is yours,
. . . or neither.