call me traitor, but my body's leaning westward
from this pennsylvania desert land
of concrete dreams deferred.
what promises float in oil slicks and excrement?
not even the birds will ease their crooked toes
through the first layer of your slime,
no water barren traveler could ever kiss your shores
or tremblings i'd ponder
idlelessly, notebook spread across
tucked knees, cold and blank
as the night--
if i knew a direction other than down,
i'd take it.
if what lied beyond camden's horizon
wasn't just a desert glorified
in miles, these bridges wouldn't go uncrossed.
No comments:
Post a Comment