I came back home
Again
Like a diseased,
Leather-made urchin
Pining for the crows
And knowing only the next
Skin waste depot
For his shameful transcendence
Opening up any shout spot,
Turning any key
To view the euphoria
Of yesteryear,
Things people were willing to give away
In sludge wells,
Dark, smoky rooms where
Pigeons fly as eagles…
I waited for night,
Falling in love with the new green paint and
Chipping it off every molecule of time.