Wheels Up

Taxiing down this pavement runway
Two hours past my destination
Turned around again and running
My years wear all their incarnations
My thoughts fly to Bolivia, to
Concrete changes wrought in me,
And the conversation I am having
With the spare parts I can be-
It seems appropriate to grieve
Inside our common language
Though I’m no longer flooded out
By the inherent anguish
All in context, but I was found
Inside this people
Given no escape, no sanctuary
Hidden in the steeple
Fluency in these dialects
Is my only heirloom
No one in the camp adopted me,
Shouldn’t I live as groomed?
Proclaim in broken melodies?
Or do these streets resurrect
Posthumous reflexes,
The misplaced genuflect?

Am I running in retrospect?

About viewingcamelot

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