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I’ve had seventy seven years enough
to reach for e-books, i-pads, dongles
diddling in ports, piddling magic
muddling away this middling while,
when what I want is to float, ashes
from Etna, on a flit wind over
the hills and far blown to atoms
above maps mindless of Eden’s roots
and this glum of mud on the stream’s leach,
downstream broad in a grey stink
by London’s industrial, sewage churning
in water-sog upstream of ruling stone.
Why would I want to turn and go back,
a salt wife for Lot’s leavings?
No. I’ll slip from the wind where a clearing’s
untilled, fall in a whichway ending.