The high-rises on the highway are built now.
People have been living in them for a while, haven’t they.
It takes me exactly 20 minutes to get to where I want to go.
These are the trains of my poetry.
This rocking under my feet.
My ears adore the whirring of a fan.
I still sleep on the floor. I have always loved sleeping on floors.
In the middle of the night I wake up to this sticky sticky heat.
The mountains and their open skies.
Storm skies. Sitting skies. Wind skies.
The sunsets from the 6th floor.
The winking evening of apartments.
The light from this window.
It is difficult. My emotion about returning.
What if there is no feeling not already known.
What if there is no need for profundity.
To be surprised by change and relearn a tongue.
To be disloyal as other cities fall away from my shoulders.
What if everything is ordinary.
Ah, but the sky above this city is full of drama.
No even that, even that is so ordinary.
My heart hurts at this thought.