I talk to myself

about how to survive

in a civilized cave.

I forget loneliness and don’t cry,

curious to find a way

to be at home in the world.

I take a homemade ferry ride

even when I don’t have

a nickel to my name.

I take good care of my feet

and head for warmer places,

nudging the earth for nourishment.

There’s no need dress for dinner.

I wear a wrap of odiferous bougainvillea.

I help myself to eggs from bird nests,

chew on sarsaparilla twigs

and lick drops of water off leaves.

I munch on nasturtiums and sage,

suck syrup out of sugar maple trees,

and forage for puffballs and chanterelles.

A white butterfly on my shoulder,

I curl up under a tree and read Pushkin.

I listen to the ambient sounds

of the denizens of the night,

a chorus of cicadas and galumphing frogs.

I beat a stone to the tunes in my head

and muster the skills required for separation.

I forget about midnight hunger.

I stop wanting.

Being happy or unhappy no longer matters.

I reconsider the importance of love.