the pity of
things,
that all who live
must die
and all the blooms
will wither
hitchhiking home—
if only
I could catch a ride
with all the little birds
that flutter so
black hummingbird
all the way from Brazil,
you flicker into the sky
and are gone, but I
must wait at the bus stop
a new quarterdeck,
a new horizon,
and the siren song
of the sea
singing in me
brown streets
and dusty people,
the sun eating up
all patience
and hope
the adobe
mission churches
with their nail-studded doors
seemed much safer
than my own home
