poem 1: Unlocked Doors in Brooklyn

September 3, 2012

see trust as a balled fist.
Here, my body, seems to me a hayseed
and here where there is so much:
   shouting and the smell
   bad weed on the mono lit metro platform,
   twice given the pound, and twice called brother
   the sky looking to be grey on purpose
and none of these are water.

Catch me wind: this is the seed prayer,
the sail prayer
catch me in your going rush, I pray
not to return, but to open my own updraft, to ride, to sail, to own my drafting self.


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