The Flight

That day I hired a private detective to follow me, and could not read his notes. In a tangled grove, I hid behind white pines, compressed my body, then watched him write, left-handed and myopic, under an Irish cap, when I asked for help from strangers who spoke Slavic languages. Wary, moving ahead, I found a depot, watched an immense train churn, haloed in steam, and boarded, second class. I had no ticket, and my expired passport represented a drooping head with unfamiliar eyes. Unshaken, rows behind, the stranger waited, wielding camera and pen. Across the border I disembarked, but knew he would capture me, with soundless footsteps, even on black gravel. I tried to recall my crime. I know I am guilty, but never why. Lawless, I have ignored those signs: WRONG WAY ; GO BACK and NO WAY OUT , circles that tell me YOU ARE HERE . I gather it is the whispers that explode, the looks that make dogs whimper. When I bow in prayer I think of love; I know I’ve killed my friends, pelting them with a touch—and yet I’ve heard they are alive. Besides, that’s not the real offense. I would cross any path, or trek through swamps to find my crime. But even he, that bald, insistent man who follows me, unsleeping, cannot tell me what I’ve done.