one’s breath makes rough thought monotony. coy rattle of a routine question.
what is it we hoped to find?
in the spirit of altered books and reinvention, practicing the sometimes futile art of looking for myself in others, while still-life like paused on the more often futile art of speaking.
sankófa, the “bird who flies while looking at history.”
“…i’m living a life I have no wish to live.”
then rain ate some lines on a paper
i never recalled
i lost a friend’s second name
in the untraceable directories of childhood
i’ll watch the seasons pass,
and i’ll remember how strong I once was.
there is a map and how often we leave it behind.