Peripheral

sense making sneaking in

 

If place makes me

Then maybe I don’t exist.

And if the memory of redwood dust is enough to find outlines

Then maybe I am still 9

 

Home.

Is a long story,

And I am the ink, the song, the characters.

I am the shoes. the dusty windowsill, and the rain outside.

 

I am the moment where you wonder if the threads will come together.

 

January 2019, San Francisco.