I WROTE THIS FOR LOS FRIARS (A BLOG I SHARE WITH JOEL, ROB, ROTH CLOTH, JOHN TODT, AND OTHERS. DID I SPELL TODT RIGHT?) I CHANGED IT TO BE MORE BROAD... BUT IT'S ALSO AT LOSFRIARS.BLOGSPOT.COM
inner limits
I was made over a decade after the flight. We stayed behind.
Our rockhouse (worn with new furniture) still stands yet
I am a stranger there. There is no room service. My room
Now belongs to guests. I am no guest. I guess
I cannot measure myself with habitat.
I arrived on time, to the day (I'm told) and on that day
My brother planted a tree out front. Taller than the neighborhood,
I found comfort in the height (my true place in the sky?)
Last week I found a pile of sawdust in its place. I guess
I cannot measure myself with nature.
I grew outside of my own skin. I searched for my face
In the child's den of imagination (sheets on chairs make Kenyan huts)
When no one had implanted my Anglo wall. I learned about
Inflexible features the hardest way I could. I guess
I cannot measure myself with exterior.
I let my spirit soar. It has not returned yet
So I wait for it in cigarette swirls. I like the way
They dance on sunlight. They say five minutes of me
Has gone up in smoke. I am supposed to care. I guess,
I cannot measure myself.
3 comments:
Is the tree really gone?
it's gone.
I really like this poem, by the way. It has great, interesting detail that says a lot about you and who you are, how you grew up and have been shaped. Yet it reminds me that we aren't called to this world and to be attached to it, because our home is not here. And our value is not determined in terms of the physical... yeah.
Good work.
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