December 22, 2019

• where was it?

  

   

  i keep trying to speak
  with this voice of rusted machinery.
  dawn came cold this morning
  stuck to flypaper clouds.
  it's finally winter
  and the flowers of memory wilt
  in the spinning wind
  brittle in rows
  of damaged magnificence.

  where was it, exactly, that
  our legend began?  where and when?
  was it in hallways that led between mountains?
  was it on the edge of the skies of youth?
  was it near where the river pirouettes
  past the playground i wandered in as a child?

  or was it at the very corner of a mountain
  where hawks dropped out into space
  and wrote our story on the empty blackboard
  of the past?

  what is love after all, but the language
  that gives us wings,
  the scenes, poems, and dreams
  stored so long in the backrooms

  of our hearts' natural imagery

  • 3:01 pm
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