To start things off, I’m posting an older piece that has been previously published.  This poem is important to me for many reasons and is serving as sort of a staring point.  I’m curious about the circular pathway in life.
Something old, something new to come as it’s said, I suppose.  And, as you might note, it’s the perfect poem to launch this particular blog.

Geography (or words thereof)

And it’s true that the fetters became
unbuckled. Gladly, yes. The rope and lash, bound
and slickened by spit and salt
could never contain a multitude
and I kept walking in this city of bridges.
California is fine this time of year. Is that
a statement or a fact? I have not lent
my ear to a fable in some time. Portland
was in our footsteps and I felt fine and
interlaced in the strings of your breath.
I have always known you. Known you
in an unconditional sense, known as in spoken
known as in latitude. I said the word map
and let myself become marked by its lines. I am
walking still. Walking in the path of your next step.