The Border has been there for as long

as I can remember with its high wire-fence,

its customs posts, its grim officials.

It was there before I broke the bonds

of isolation: it was there before

I discovered solitude.

Now the time has come for me to cross

the Border.  I have applied for my papers

and to renew my passport.

I shall take with me but one bag;

I shall then be able to turn, to move, quickly.

I am repeating simple maxims to myself

like “leap before you look”,  selecting supplies

for this essential journey;

honing my wardrobe to the barest minimum,

rehearsing goodbyes.

I shall memorize snatches of poems

to bolster my uncompromising intent.

then barter all of my books,

records and tapes in return

for protestations of remembrance,

trade my stocks of dried beans,

rice and pasta for prayers of deliverance.

My bag is all but ready.

Across the border are unfamiliar lands,

lands of un-trodden dimension.

I know across the border

everything is unknown.

Now there can be no turning back.

I have feathers because they are so light,

mustard seed, wheat and barley for planting,

tiny white pills to sterilize the drinking water

and my scout-knife,  with 28 blades.

I have not set the day:

it could be any day now.

The border, always a feature of my landscape

will become my present; beyond the border,

always a mystery, will become my knowing.

Once across the border to return

will be unthinkable:

I shall not even consider it.