[from Christina Davis's Forth a Raven, Alice James, 2006]
It's 7:30. It is still possible
to know where you are.
The field quiet and birded, across it a deer has fled
and then turned back
as if it left some part of itself behind,
the part that feared me.
Which is harder, do you think, the journey to paradise
or the one to the underworld,
if on either occasion you know from the outset
you will have to return?
Before there was a self, there were many hunches,
many came to the cradle
but in going began
to define me as what-does-not-go-away.
We are each what never leaves us, what we never see
the back of
is the self. But what loves us
is at the back, as Eurydice was
escorting him out
without his knowing.
It is eight o'clock, it is ten. It is time.
in the mind, a dream
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