Sometimes, it’s about the first person
You’ll see when you land,
Not off a plane, but this place
You’ve called home. It’s the moment you know
All you’ve worked for
Somehow doesn’t make sense, like leaving you
To start over, and move at an irregular pace.
It’s this shaking, not the kind you remember,
But from lack of food, too many hours spent
Going everywhere, but perpendicular:
Return to Sender. Person unknown.
So you go back, back to wishing,
Wishing you had the time, maybe to take up carving,
And call something your own...our own.
But there’s no you, so I dig away at the landscape,
Finding buckets of memories, baked fossils;
My spade turns circles in the air, and I become lost
In my own motions, another reason to start again,
Drift. Tread. Drift. Tread.
Until I untangle myself from this sea of hair.
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