I breathe smoke more than air now
My hands hold stones more than dirt
I’ve been stumbling through the streets I grew up on,
All 29 of them,
And recognizing none of them

Trying to walk in the shoes of a ten year old me
And remembering I was barefoot most days
Hands covered in dirt, skin full of sun
I never noticed the calluses

Now My knuckles are quarters
I was told character costs a dollar
I’m almost out of money and ending up
Nowhere but bruised and broke

I am the storm in the skull of a deaf man
The roiling sea in the creaking knees of an old sailor
The hollow in the tree, the echo of a cry in a dry ravine
I live in the gap of the universe
In a house built on stilts at the edge of being a man

I want only rain and sighing trees now


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