I will become a traveller again.

My boots laced up,

I will let my nails go uncut

I will let my chin sprout a bush of hair – 

like the immensity of these mornings

that stand between me and a beautiful death.

 

As I near my beautiful death

I will wander among faces 

like a homesick pilgrim,

like a bird falling from the nth tree of the world

as the last star sets

in a basket of apples – 

there, early one morning.