soapball madness

The soapball madness is rolling out of hand
to lengths we could never comprehend
in legs, in hair, forgotten like the wind
that rolls up the years behind us in a great re-raveling.

Re-raveling because we've come undone in traveling.
And soap is never on my list of things
to bring.  What I search for I must conjure -
silence and space and places with words that cast shadows.

In any case, we've gone through rucksacks apiece
and what's in them never matters.  There's rain,
there's snow and sometimes the birds that rain
to render temporary backlumps useless and spectacular.

And sometimes it's the uninvited we take to most -
the hitchhiker seeds that cling to your shirt,
the small mountain stones that stick in your boots -
because the best parts just fit and noiselessly go

like there's some overarching symbiosis that our bodies know.
So if we had soap, we'd wash it away
and keep memories spotless and fresh and new
and withdraw them often and never let ourselves roll out of hand.

photo: Vestmannaeyjar runway


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