The Interior

    by David Chorlton

At the end of the roads, after the pastures
have disappeared, where a thin path leaves
the world you know for one
without horizons,

you look up to see the sky
for a last time before
it turns into leaves

and glance back to see the rainforest
close behind you. From here
you find your way by touch
between wet moss growing on bark
and strings of light
hanging from cracks in the foliage.
A sound you can’t identify

tugs at your imagination
inviting you to cross the river
that washes away your past.
Irresistible, the glistening dip between a stone
and a fern

draws you down
and a slippery incline offers
a way back up,
and you balance
on ground that gives way

as you plant one boot at a time
into it, hardly moving, breathing deeply, 
taking root in the moment,

no past, no future, no shelter, no name.