“something keeps going away; it is as if desire were nothing but this hemorrhage.”
–Roland Barthes
I want
always a way away
to disappear through the trees
drift like mist
across an open field
into something other
until the traces of memory
are erased and the niggling
recriminations vanish into air
as if I were never here
I want
always something beyond now
this constant discontent
with what I have
with who I am
as if I could escape this skin
momentarily and float free
like a satin ribbon falls
from her hand to the floor
with a grace I do not possess
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