some places I have always departed, too close

some places I have always departed, too close
in our lifetime, your mouth has it's clamor:
nearly all your sturdy signals drive me away,
or those I can hold because they are long gone

your distinguished words hardly move me now
though I have opened myself as the road,
you close me street by street myself as trees close
(holding ignorantly, effortlessly) her last leaf

or when I want to leave you, I and
my heart will open very differently, immediately,
as how the leaf of this tree envisions
the streets heedlessly throughout winding;

everything we were to discern on this Earth contrasts
the fragility of your harsh powers:
whose surface obligates me with the stain of its province,
allowing birth and evermore with each dying breath

(I now know what it was about you and I which opens
and closes; always something in us grasping
the silence of your mouth is heavier than all trees)
not a soul, not even lighting, has your booming voice