I looked for purpose and place the way
a mailman thumbs through his bag
at the doorstep, assured he'd find
that goddamn stubborn postcard.
I carved the Black Mesas with a red
Camry, certain the fossil valleys
would yield peace in my dumbfound
appreciation of this rich earth.
I perched on my twin mattress
while 3 o'clock hovered in the
background of my bedroom, yet
I found no home in the darkness.
I listened as Cohen sung brokenness,
I sought out my steel carton of letters,
and let the writers tell of foreign refuge
with the calmness of being known.
No comments:
Post a Comment