Tuesday, August 13, 2019

Strange land



Coming home from up high
where I waded motionless
in the breeze blowing down
from volcanoes over bubbling
mud, a boiling lake

where I loved life so much I
worried every hour of losing it.

Now I am back in the land of
man-made things—

moss from still ponds and
twigs still stuck on my shoe

Home where throngs frenzied 
with goals clog the streets, 
their constant motion drugging 
the air

where every place I go
too many got there first

where I sleep pinched 
without sight though the moon 
shines here too big 
and white.






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