The Forests of the Self
A puzzling business, setting up this campsite
In the forests of myself,
A tent, a little fire for light.
By what right do I call this “my space”,
Call that “wilderness”?
Could I let die this artificial light
And live the darkness,
Only sense and feel these presences
Out in infinity.
“Who am” is an unquiet predator
Who stalks the forests of the self
By moon and sun.
His prey is great fat images;
He spies one, runs it down,
Tears off chunks, swallows whole,
Then rests in brief satiety
Rolling, lazy, on the ground,
Taking on its smell and stain
To ease the next hunt.
Sometimes he stays his own sharp hunger
To assist a fellow hunter,
And once in a great while
Climbs a hilltop high above the treeline,
Perhaps with a companion,
There it all is: forest, desert, river, sky.
And far horizon: calling quietly,
Receding always if pursued,