Ouroboros

I want to be the sound of a wooden flute,
The smoke where vanishes the flame¹,
The light that limns the harbor waves—
Animate but not alive.
Gone in a moment.

Sad creature, I am sad with you.

I chase myself down woods and deserts
I hunt myself in the dark and narrow ways
I am trying to transform myself
from the resonant sound of a gong
into the bright spirit of the air,
the kantele.

When my head aches for days on end,
I seem to feel the blot of blood in my brain spreading,
like ink in water,
uncurling into strange smoky snakes.
One day like ouroboros the old blood will meet itself.