R. S. Armstrong
Most Fertile Soil
Santo begs the question: was I or was I not lonely?
It’s easier than that, it’s not about pleasure.
The sea voyage I went on lasted for days.
There were sharks and sailors. We had fun.
Then there were the travels on land: darkness
coming down fast, cresting the hill, and pushing hard
toward the fall. It’s true, I am injured. It’s always
unnamed. The restlessness is part
of the language. I never come home saying,
I’m hurt. It’s broken. If I cry out,
it’s always, I’m open! Man on!