Ends of the Earth
I write about you
as if I own you
which I do not.
As you can say of nothing
this is mine.
When we rise
the last hug
no longer belongs,
is your fiction
or my story.
Mulch for the future.
Whether we pass
through each other
like pure arrows
or fade into rumour
I write down now
a fiction of your arm
or of that afternoon
in Union Station
when we both were lost
pain falling free
the speed of tears
under the Grand Rotunda
as we disappeared
rose from each other
you and your arrow
taking just
what you fled through.
Michael Ondaatje
