H e a r t S o n s & H e a r t D a u g h t e r s of A l l e n G i n s b e r g
N a p a l m H e a l t h S p a : R e p o r t 2 0 1 4 : A r c h i v e s E d i t i o n
By The Lamp, Burning
For three days now I’ve spoken to no one.
My steps sound as sure as waves on sand.
Only fireflies light the way back to camp.
The inside of me erupts in this silence.
Today I untangled a butterfly from my hair—
by this light I imagine him again
yellow tangled in yellow—
And I left the sky still purpled with the sun,
a sliver of moon waving good-bye.
By the lamp burning are not kisses,
the not yet disappearing of me into your eyes
the never touches beside the tent,
the torn off pages with the way
I did not take.
For three days now I’ve been unaware of hours;
I stood in the water touching its ripples with both palms
the way I imagined you might touch my face.
[Originally published in NHS 2000, http://www.poetspath.com/napalm/nhs00/bugan.html.]