harbinger

On soft wings

Nostalgic, like in old photos

It lives in the spaces where

Your teacher shops for groceries

Like humanity

In the fractures of the concrete

Who are we really,

On soft wings

At sundown 

The condors take to the sky.

Take the sky.

As if it was always yours

Bound to a legacy

In a strength of patience

Awaken to the willingness

And somehow there but, not

Awaiting the future with boredom

As the days come and pass

But time remains eternal

An endlessness of sunrises

Expanding into extinction

What will have mattered, is poetry

In the beauty of ephemera

Where the rain fell And the rivers ran

the soul danced as many and one

as a jungle of something greater

like the whispers that call you home

Nesting

From the vantage point of crampt little spaces

Chittering like starlings in a nest

An old cypress, swaying in the wind like some cheap apartment building

What sounds like a thousand little conversations bubbling up—

Through flimsy walls

From the rooms next door  

A gurgling, squeaky sound to pour upon the interactions of the laundromat

and off down the street

There is a confusion

In the recesses of myself

Hinged on the complexity and the needlessness

Of telepathically empty spaces that do nothing to feed the soul

As the possession of peculiar hunger lives familiar

Like a series of prefabricated homes

where I am expected to “Ooh” and “ahh” Over every piece of minutia

as if it is…

(what?)

an emptiness, that proliferates

made urgent with time.

As if it is buying into a bland story line.

To ease the ache of mediocrity

Unable to shake the grasp of what the world should be

In an upheaval of unanswerable questions

About the nature of what it is to belong.