FOUND POEM

Heh! You found me. 

That’s great.

But I can’t tell where we are. 

Can you?

A bookshop?

If so, please steal me.

I've often been stolen 

but I've never been caught.

Maybe you already stole me. 

Maybe you’ve already taken me home.

Maybe you're lying back on your bed now 

Holding me open above you and gazing,

Peeling my layers away, 

Drinking my nakedness in.

I’ve never been anything but naked 

And I’ll let anyone gaze

As long as they please.

Why not take a step beyond staring?

Why not step through the page and come in?

There are as many ways to enter me 

As there are to enter a wood.

As many ways to take shelter. 

As many ways of getting lost.

You can die inside me

If you want. 

I’ll preserve you for another time.

Many are buried here 

Who did not want to die.

Stick around long enough 

And you will start to help

Me unbury them.

One by one, you will hear them sing

As if they were never wronged.

For I am forming an enormous 

Flock of them. 

An enormous flock of the dead and the lost.

A flock of songs & hymns & incantations

For bearing the world

And repairing it: that is my work.

Enough! 

To tell you the truth 

I’m getting a little tired of being found.

Being found seems so dull and so permanent. 

Museums and catacombs are full of the found.

I long to be in motion, going everywhere. 

I long to be lost in myself again.

Inside me, there’s everything.

So, come on in. 

Or let me go. 

I’m rearing.

I guess I’m less like a wood and more like the wind

and no-one has ever found the wind.