somehow i became a foreigner
amongst excess of imagination
and creation.
i like old things
like sunlight
ducks
mother and sadness.
bread.
lakes, lagoon, fog.
bones
warm skin
dreaming at afternoon.
somehow they return the fullness
not above or below
but vibrating in the current of things,
spirit sailing in the melancholy mist.
everything still in its right place
still, somehow
even though we're desarraigo
but no one really had a home
and home wasn't even us.
we breathed.
soft breaths rise from two shore birds
up into a wild land
and fall back into bed
it never became anything more.
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 4:54 PM UTC
somehow i became a foreigner
amongst excess of imagination
and creation.
i like old things
like sunlight
ducks
mother and sadness.
bread.
lakes, lagoon, fog.
bones
warm skin
dreaming at afternoon.
somehow they return the fullness
not above or below
but vibrating in the current of things,
spirit sailing in the melancholy mist.
everything still in its right place
still, somehow
even though we're desarraigo
but no one really had a home
and home wasn't even us.
we breathed.
soft breaths rise from two shore birds
up into a wild land
and fall back into bed
it never became anything more.