After the Spell

AFTER THE SPELL

We were—till then—content

within the fenced-in modern mind,

though reason trod the tired rows

troubled: why will nothing grow?

But then it brought us deeper

in, past the fields to a pebbled shore

beside a sea in which we washed 

the world, returning—may we call it

home, the land we briefly left behind

like a dead skin?—to find it shine

a bit more as itself. But rinsed, 

what else but dry it out again—

this one’s all we have to wear, 

remember?—and how the hot air

in our native country makes

it shrink, insisting that it take

a size or two, at best. Cleaner, yes, 

if small now, and tighter in the chest.