To the locusts that blur the lyres of their shells,
I leave my blindness at the end of day.
To the distant whistle of the train at dusk,
I leave the smoke in a girl's hair.
To days I dipped my body in, I leave my only shadow.

To the gravel road where it crackles and spits,
to the fluster of the wheel, the brake,
the broken shoulder, its buckle and curve,
to the long labor of the open eye,
I leave one lush confession.

To the pincers of ants dismantling a bird,
I leave the bitter patch at the tip of my tongue.
To the porch light haloed in a scribble
of moths, I leave my boyish appetite.
To the hymn, the yawn, the three in the morning,

I leave the warmth of the engine
as it settles and purrs.
To the empty page beneath me where I lie,
I leave the weight of ink above.
To the hole that is my throat, I leave the flesh around it.

To the dream I can't remember,
I leave the one I won't. To my father's memory,
I leave the bread crumbs of my name.
To the body that follows a body to its grave,
I leave the seagull's laughter.

To the bride who says good-bye to the mirror,
I leave the cold face of the mirror.
To the one who reads, I leave the fire.
To the quiet brightening behind me as I go,
I leave the quiet to come.