• The Stair-spirit


    Nostalgia must remain a word foreign
    like the hiss and lick and release
    from the roof of a stranger’s mouth,
    must seek to become etymology running
    back to years of lost avenues,

    To music and a late morning sky, or
    to an afternoon of you

    Blessing a stairwell with shadow,
    seeing the steps for what they were—a craft
    of stone, the points of ants from a wet crack—
    not for where they led to, or for who
    had been sitting upon them, waiting for exits.

    Nostalgia is a poem thing, a thing tongueless
    still drawing a name from our veins.

    Here I am, there you were,
    and what belongs to now can’t be my friend.
    For years ago we left our roots
    hanging in the air, and today
    a blind wind began whistling on my skin.


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