you wanted to do the right thing
and in the doing
you became a welcome stranger to some
and a figure of contradiction to others.

As I stood,  
on the wet street  
in solitude, behind
the external lens  
in my hands,
I could hear the passing  
of painted, ticking clock hands
as they whispered and waved
through static noise  
from precipitation  
around me–  
        I wondered,
if a past soul  
of mine, contributed  
to a time of white flight,  
when a financial crisis  
sprawled like a crack  
on a windshield, from a chip  
in glass, created  
by another battle  
between politicians.
My present soul,  
              resides,
in Heidelberg,  
where  
stories of others
become painted dots  
on buildings  
climbing walls  
like spiders,  
their painted eyes
against the stark white,
doted house
seeing all.

the secret places-
solitude you seek

aloneness found
you are known.

watched from afar
a cradled star

cherished
loved.

She is soil,
earth and pure.
I run her through my hands
and she falls
through my fingers.

the problem is
i care
too much
about
not caring