circles to be traced
take my fingers back ten, fifteen years
i am shrinking back to when i was growing up
these are the physical sensations:
the musics and the people and their faces
the middle of the night
the roof, the sounds of the crickets and
the train rattling in the meadowlands
the whispering of my cigarette against terra cotta painted green
the smell of the ashes from my drawer
the appaling reality of seven a.m.,
which i have never outgrown,
the truth of darkness, punctuated by infrequent lights
the same fears
going back these ten or fifteen years
can i put my head down on the ground?
can i cry out?
some days i am running through the lightest air
the water receives me
there is peace in footsteps and phone calls
some days i really wonder about you people,
i wonder what i am really doing here
at all
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