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Seeds


Never new, always wood worn,

stairs sinking, a golden glow fades

on the floor of my childhood heart

where I eat perfectly peeled oranges

as my family reminds me

that no matter where I go,

I’ll always have a little desert dust

in these lungs, the heart cannot help

but love where it comes from.

Even here in the city, where we wouldn’t

have a home without the streets, I wonder

how long

would it take

to grow seeds

in the belly of the beast?

The sun sets & I am unsettled in the

presence of memory at dusk,

walking down the cobble-brick

streets of SOHO, the skeleton

of a New York past

& for a moment I believe

that we really could grow

fruit in the intestines

of our bodies,

because they told me it could happen,

& despite the teasing tone & playful posture,

there was wisdom in that warning.

And then it happens--even when I know

that they are long gone

beyond that sweeping horizon,

I will still want to call them.

No one knows why.


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