We fell from Heaven
And struck every branch
On the way down.
The impact left a crater,
Half the diameter of a New England town.
With no direction I dream
Of rambling on.
Lucidly waking, scrambling for
Planes, trains, or bus.
Filling my hiking bag, hand encompassing a compass.
I have lost what I was searching for
Days end, regardless of the score.
Dominoes race to tackle one another
And lay in a long row, beautiful.
The fallen supporting the aggressor.
I need to go to the East Coast.
I need to go to the West Coast.
I need mountain range.
I need to fill my lungs with ocean salt
I need to fill my eyes with less asphalt.
Whenever I see daisies
I want to thrust them beneath your nose.
White petals collide
Like characters in my prose.
I see them growing strong.
Through cracks in the concrete.
Or neatly clipped,
wrapped with feet
Dipped in a Convenience store’s
Milk-crate propped doors.
It is so, so strange,
How socially corrupt that would be.