There was a dream I had, kept having,
That I was alive, that I had left and returned.
The leaving always felt freeing, a jail break,
And the return was always slightly stunning.
How had it happened that here I was again
Where I thought I had taken my last leave?
Every morning this would happen,
Every week and every season, every year.
I never knew exactly how it was I returned.
I thought I never would, but I did and I did.
But I didn't. I always escaped. I never
Returned. It was only that each escape
Traced a parabola toward the same point,
Infinitely vanishing and near as god damn
To the previous exit but never the same.
And I said to myself as the soft shoulder air
Of early September settled in the courtyard
Of the half foreclosed house of sanctuary
In Zion, as the retreating harvest moon rose,
To escape you have to stop escaping.
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