Set 12, 2012

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.