Imagine exile, if it’s in you.
From a place you loved
& off & on, a place which loved you.
Imagine being alone & thirsty.
A thirst as much about cutting
as about choking. One that hurts,
runs a dry rope down your throat,
a cord of sandy hemp & sun-bleached twine.
Imagine being cut off, cast out, Adam,
cast out, Eve. Evicted from a life too good
to be even slightly true.
Call it a dream, that life.
& then, as ever,
there is waking, gnashing of teeth.
But mostly weeping.
Longing for sleep again
for ignorance’ sweet, gentle fruits.

James Proffitt