a stoppover.
where nothing has really happened in the past, not ever, really
i could much more easily weep in thye park
where everything "might've" and nothing "did"
but why here?
i speant a day there, really, the rest in her snow-covered mountains
and one night in the city by the pacific.
but the clouds, smoky fog, rolling in off the wide expanses
bringing whispers of the rolling desolation,
secrets of the vents coming up in waves
on currents, coming from far off
it is here i cry

i cry and i call home, let my mother know i'm living
and begin to see the end of a long journey home
and the long journey back here.
it's a home, or close enough, I think
or will be

a charge of volition and emotion,
nearing and growing as a senseless armada
bent on destruction of death