Dear Wandering

There is nothing I want from you,
lighthouse of bottlefly eye.
I never sought a port.
Temporal and lost, made thin by wandering,
I scored no corporeal songs.
So do not confound me, lighthouse.
Lead someone else to return.

Absent a body, what makes a grave?
Not bright birdsong, not lithe air,
not sustenance by chalice,
or modest beds at bright perimeters.
Path me, lighthouse, but not by stricken lantern.
Instead, by concrete petrichor — no shore allowed —

I will follow your noisy drops and hollows,
the signposts in your coils, the vibrance of your wires,
the singing soundlessness that trawls
the place that raised me to a dirge.
So do not confound me, lighthouse.
I never sought a port,
no guesting back, no catwalk.
Lead someone else to return.