April 29, 2015
Richmond
www.wordsinwait.blogspot.com
Sometimes
I like it here.
It is a soundless ruin that
still somehow shouts
many millions of stories
through broken toothed windows.
Every block is a shelf
stacked and sagging with histories
of all things said and done and
what went unsaid and undone.
It is a soundless ruin that
still somehow shouts
many millions of stories
through broken toothed windows.
Every block is a shelf
stacked and sagging with histories
of all things said and done and
what went unsaid and undone.
All these
buildings falling
quietly around me
have spoken volumes
about what it means to rotate
and yet stand still-
to stand in one place and spin
without ever consciously committing
to this act of growing old.
quietly around me
have spoken volumes
about what it means to rotate
and yet stand still-
to stand in one place and spin
without ever consciously committing
to this act of growing old.
In this
place I have decided-
for the first time
to put my story down
into the spaces left open
between streets and sidewalks-
these streets and sidewalks.
for the first time
to put my story down
into the spaces left open
between streets and sidewalks-
these streets and sidewalks.
I lay
myself down
one letter at a time
alongside my neighbors knelt
with their hands in this dirt
digging in search of themselves and
finding the place they
will one day lie down.
one letter at a time
alongside my neighbors knelt
with their hands in this dirt
digging in search of themselves and
finding the place they
will one day lie down.
I want my
hands dirty
like theirs
and my porch crumbling
showing evidence of life and time
and wearing this dirt and time
in that old book dignity-
broken-spined and dusty but
still there with something to say.
like theirs
and my porch crumbling
showing evidence of life and time
and wearing this dirt and time
in that old book dignity-
broken-spined and dusty but
still there with something to say.
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