His would be the voice you hear
At the beginning of a long journey
Inquiring, now with a list,
A voice you hear
A figure whose presence
You can only imagine
Without seeing his face,
Watching you preparing to leave
And asking if you’ve packed this
Or that of your belongings,
A voice with a similar indifference
As to what you’re actually feeling,
A pleasant voice then, neutrally
Engaged with what you’re doing
With what you’re about to do
With what’s about to happen to you;
Understandable, when you consider
The list of points of preparedness
Of stations, if you like,
That after all constitutes a plot
But with nothing malevolent about it
Nothing conspiratorial,
Simply bearing different meanings
For him
Than for you:
However it puts you in harm’s way
And whatever ill comes of your journey
Is a question of a will that’s
Neither yours nor his;
His plot, while you get ready
Of points, while you pack
On a graph, while you regret
Will match your story;
And the arc of what you feel
Having been said once
And for all
Will at last require
No further description
Than what is necessary
Than what is written down.
The fact that you don’t want to leave
Will itself be left behind.
His would be a voice then
Resembling yours
And similarly indifferent
Providing an image
Wholly as adequate
To your leaving
As the points on a throw of dice.
