I fold into my hermitage, wall-less,
the art of leaving; the beauty of my absence.
It begins in a turning of bodies
from all the outstretched hands with flaming poppies,
then you, as I have, will carry yourself into the margins,
run away! Flee from the world’s ill-got fortunes,
learn the weight of your own company
and follow the tongues of dust and ink-tipped feather’s litany.
The airy specks and downy fluff will dance on your skin,
Past every living thing—and every wretched one therein.
Earth still turns. Home still keeps her ambitions—
Without me—yet I am wholly me—
Eremition! Eremition!