FLOOR  PLAN JOURNAL

 

                                     Homesickness 

 

   

For the longest time my problem

was the city I looked over.

My feet on the bridge-walk

and the taste of wings at dawn.         

 

I never fluttered. I didn’t fall.

In my dark suit, in winter, there is some [black] art

to how one hides it. Without a face—

I mean, without a flinch.

 

Then a gold beast came to rest behind me.