From Where I Dwell

1. From darkness comes light.

Nobody saw me walking
in the shadows of buildings
absconded behind tracks
at the city's edge
where things are made
away from people's homes.

Were I found there, I
would blink away
the light. Rescinding
my path backwards
from where I came.

Dreaded encounters
overwhelm the senses;
I quietly aim
for the darkest paths.

Upon my return
the floors feel new
again, and I walk
briskly across them.

All corridors are new.

Every doorway

a new entrance.

2. The air I breathe.

And when the distance

settles
like dust from old parchment,
the billows clutch
against the woodwork.

You have to force
the air in. Sometimes
you've got to bend
your back and pull
until you think
you'll collapse.

The ocean opens
up the horizon
through the canopy
where men dwell.

The spray swells
up the rocks
and the earth
begins to breathe.