Trip


Point to point, what is in-between?
People are gathered in grids of energy
like thickets to crevices of stream,
crowding dense to catch a trickle
of light filtering from shafts in the towering
trees down to their spread desire,
vulnerable as baby birds
waiting for god to fulfill her duty.
What is outside of their wordless yearning?
What is uncovered by names?
What is the space, what the invisible, where will they never go–
only pass through on their way back
home?

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Author: manderson

I live in NYC.

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