Unknown, 20 October 2017

The phone screen glows one word,
“Unknown.” I refuse to pick up.
I’m not ready yet. I didn’t run away
To this damned planet to come home
The same. I want to know the true
Identity of the Angel before I quit
Scraping the fountains at night for change.
When you’re lost, you begin to believe
That you might be close to home, might be
Almost on top of it without knowing it.
Maybe a small move, over here or there,
Maybe a new familiar, maybe a shift
In the manner of moving, in the strategy
Of the search, in the plan of attack will do
The trick. You forget you chose to run away.
You forget you’re inside a forest you
Didn’t make, a nervy canopy of swaying
Twig tips whispering, inhabited by ghosts
And shape-shifting memories. You’re here,
But you’re never alone enough to know
What you ever were before, why ever you
Chose to come here alone. I’m like you
That way, and I know it. I squint in the dark,
Peering through the leaves for any other
Monster who might be a clue to me, who
Might be an actual me or you. The fountains
Are pretty at night, although I have to stir
Aside the day’s fallen leaves and feel
Around the bottom for the real. Unknown.
I know what that means. I can’t find home
By any amount of searching for treasures
In this museum of trees. I have to go without
Seeing the Angel identified, without finding
Any home among these pillars and statues
That pass for guardians and prizes, without
Knowing where the right exit might be,
Without being permitted to know. I won’t go.