a man believes a ground war outdated,
settling my senses into the melancholy
of unnecessary and inevitable scars,
knowing nothing ends in the air
because we are of earth.
this morning my boots plowed
one path
through blizzard’s detritus,
streets abandoned, wind alone.
a raven shouted into the silence,
its word echoing between buildings.
this is how it was, I thought.
and this is how it is or will be because
only the faces change.
every day we blindfold ourselves,
spin around in the dark
and claim then to know where we are.
perhaps we do.
we stand where we have always stood,
in ourselves and little wiser.
orphan poems 