The Beggar Poet's Hexagram 33: Retreat

I’ll imagine how far the eagle flies
to avoid danger


uplift
of wings


follow it over the horizon
until the last salute punching the air,
arguments over common destiny,
fresh blood running from one lake
to another, but never to the sea,
have dissipated


toward a soft blue tinge
and white centre


hoping to touch a rainbow without admixture
in frost


emanating out of exquisite loneliness.



I’ll enter a garden
where plums turn purple
and rare birds keep notes
of happiness above the clouds


with an eye fixed on an even higher abode,
my brow arching in space, neck stretching back
in denial,
elevate where the egret’s nest has been abandoned
and unlikely words bring forth another way
of anticipating withdrawal:


there’s clear sky over a range,
distance between each summit
and a long way from the echo behind a listener


the shaman who looks under the skin
and tells me why my heart quails


why I hate him:


instead of clear water nourishing the roots,
pigments changing with suffused light
and tendrils grasping at support
the clogged passage,
gaping face
and excited minions who eat every last drop of fluid


a chapter to an unfinished book, immortal
who’ll get to know my name
and neglected garden


another tome to enlighten paradox,
inebriated head above the sun
in love with a god’s paramour,
accomplishment of all things before the curtain falls


the bad mouthed expletive,
look of disdain
and going backwards till I reach the horizon


even though flakes swirl in placid streams,
altar scent mimics fragrance before petals close
and shallows lap an equally empty shore
the swoop from the ledge
and claw embedded in bone


yes,
I know you may perceive my demise,
elucidate the manner
of my end


but I want to feel the one love
without being bothered by truth,
bind the thongs securely


there’s an eyeball retreating to the back
of the skull,
skin drained of blood,
smell of old leaves


for a while stoke inert fires
into life,
plant seeds under a waning moon,
go along with your detachment




forget you must suffer the consequences
of being made of the same stuff
as me.