I sit among family,
aunts, uncles, children,
plates of food.
I am young among elders,
mature among youth.
My legs are strong.
I am innocent,
a barnacle racing through water
with the sail of life
open full above me.
I turn the light off.
For a moment dark causes me fear.
I turn the light on.
I sit among family,
aunts, uncles, children.
The sun is past the meridian,
I look at their faces.
Some with new eyes,
absences,
my legs feel heavy
from time to time.
I fall into silence listening,
particularly to my children,
to my love.
I eat bread without butter.
The wind has died.
The ship floats in the water.
I turn the light off.
I refuse sleep anymore.
I hear things in the night,
neither sad nor happy,
bells sounding,
tolling for what?
I turn the light on.
I sit among family,
aunts, uncles, children.
I am moored in a harbor.
The sun is going down.
Should I turn off the light
I ask of nothing in particular?
And nothing in particular replies,
with a strange, compelling affection,
let it burn, Ted.
Let it burn.