From the recording Secret Poems
Secret Poems (2017)
Poem-writing is a compressed way to say the truth.
(Secret Poem #3)
You put all the words we used in an old brown cardboard suitcase,
took them to the Greyhound station, stowed them in the cage. ‘Bye ‘bye.
Then you gathered up the music, all the melodies and love songs,
swept them out into the ocean, floating far beyond the island.
There is nothing I can say now; there is nothing I can sing
for the bus has left the depot, all the ships have sailed away.
I haven’t got my passage or a paddle to start rowing.
I look to the horizon, look back over my shoulder.
Somewhere in these constellations, somewhere is the one and only.
I must see if I can find it. I must search until I do.
So, I gather random papers, old receipts and bills and napkins.
On the back I write equations, secret poems in my pocket.
They’re the key with just one purpose. The design is old and holy:
it’s a cross, a heart, an anchor: made to open every door.
Secret poems in my pockets, they are all I have for passage.
They will be my map and compass, take me home, oh, take me home.