To Zarja

Wherever you go, I will follow
through groves, where cypresses huddle like shy brown women
through clouded waters, under alligator bellies
through empty churches, swept clean by the beggar wind
and the preacher had long fallen asleep
in the white kitchen
his head on the oaken table
and past the old, shawl-covered woman,
napping in the rocking chair by the window:
Look, how blue the evening sky!
I will follow you into the night sea
into dark, cold waters
the unlit fathoms
where heavy eyelids close
Yes, even there, I will follow you
my love.