reacquainted

i am a stranger to myself
so how will i give direction?

on this island, the buses run without maps
the limestone cuts
walls with no meaning

i stand solitary in a field
watch them run
in circular patterns only which
the sun can see

the little boy eating yogurt is an artist
i can tell by the way
he holds his spoon

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About ky

Poet. Photographer. Writer. Goddess. View all posts by ky

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