Locus

How to explain that the genius
of this place is in my bones 
and, in leaving, 
a little of my marrow 
is extricated, left behind?

That the movement of shadow
beside a certain window
and the space between two bay trees,
constantly changing
and always here,
has carried on countless 
conversations with my soul, 
our voices creating a place 
where no more poems
will arrive?

I will take my soul with me, 
and the rest of my marrow;
there will come new places
where lines of words settle 
onto my fingertips
among moonlight and wool.

But first the severing,
the hurt, and time
for the healing.