i need to leave
this place of mine
land of eternal sunshine.
i must get out
as the free men shout,
lest my imagination be bereaved.

so i travel to the banks
of the Mississippi and sing softly
the songs of Hughes and Wheatley.
i travel to the shores
of the Atlantic and hear cries upon the moors
of Pope and the Bard, ships who sank.

but i hesitate at the grave
of Da Vinci in le Val de Loire
and think of my final hour.
i hesitate at the end
of a journey well spent to contend
that life without love one cannot save.