I am not english,
but i chose to write english.
English for my blood.

Indigo midnight, shooting stars
and a wish to have a wish.
As desiring as darling, Mary Grace.

Only to wake to yesterday's anguish.

For even Robert Frost
did not see this road.
t'was like an encounter with Eurydice
taken away upon sight.

For the wish was seized as t'was granted.
So the old sky and his throbin' want,
sat him through star-free midnight.

Where be woman man?
who kneels to rivers, lakes, and
drinks their reflection.

I remember when i too became foreign
far away from the hometown
that of: warm mountain-air,
sunday vendor chatter,
morning capitol walks,
And a sense of security
made felt by local robbers.
Gone at a step out the hometown.

I remember when i too became foreign
loitering unnamed lands, homesick
with lingering feelings, homesick.
Through and through the cold air
Missing my own home, and sick
of this haunting thought
whereas my body is new to such soil
And uneasy foreign-then-local conversation.
To an extent that in my own house,
I am sick and foreign.

I remember when i too became foreign
speaking the local tongue, and moving
accordingly to local norms, knowing
names: neighbors, nearby restaurants,
employers, employees, and officemates.
Being never really accustomed to the new
and holding on to such defining truth
that i am my own hometown.

A year away January twen'y-twenty.
The people of december
had changed their surnames.
Mr. and Mrs. Deceased.

In a field of sand the poppies blow;
Over pits touched by ocean flow;
abaft a shade, hidden before some
shut-eye sun; And after a leveled shore,
Some petals show like crows on corpse.

And the moon, Oh how it stares down at us:
Like a half cut, half fallen birch tree.
We cry to such birch foliage:
That thirst these warm tears from us.

Darling, do you see? How the sea
is envy; it changes from blue to me;
plodding over pounded rocks;
palm to sole, fingers through toes;
Swim back to a reflection of me--
There the poppies follow me.

Hunger to quell:
all fill—fell into ocean floor—
there lions eat themselves.

Little but coarse
that of a sands' valiance
all and itself
till rushing seas rummages
in-between cowardice
weakening what had been was.

Little but coarse
then taken by beach water
as it rode the ocean depth
all to the ocean floor
far from light and ocean breath.

Little but coarse
it endured the heavy above
some can only take some
but all turn a little softer
only those that still have
ride back and above.

A darker-shade fire deprived
Is but an extinguished burn.
Or so until a breath
To be a little brighter.

At opposing tracks
they ran:
foreign, then home.
Chasing one another
but not ever near.
And when met:
barely a facade, whence both thread
but not ever together.
Even voices heard
one side to the other
left misunderstood.
Until each return
home, home, home.
Where the first wakes
before the tired sleeps.

Hidden in midnight,
upon light its visage unearths:
shadows of a plant.

Be it where:
oceans slams cliffs
or there and here;
oceans sift through sand
—again and again—
like yourself with myself
—ourselves and ourselves—
bare skin against bare skin
—fingers through fingers—
your lips then our lips
heart to heart
love! oh love!

Hadn't met a sun
Unpotted plants chose to cry
dry before the sun

A time wherein
Everything slows but everyone.
Every drop a minute more.
A little less, A little you, that of is time.
Which is gone.

Timid trees dry easily,
underneath are brazen roots;
veiled with shades of soil.
wandering as anxiety wilts
Growing in one place.