a story about how you are not a city

you are not a tower

or city.

cities do not build

walls like men do.

they do not flower

against fighting flower.

they are un-armed.

you are not a city

because cities do not hide.

and cities speak like

towers tower, so

you cannot be them.

all your ground does not make you a city.

and towers,

towers do not defend themselves

against the seasons,

or cities,

or mountains,

or me.

adam

I was born

a stone.

As if love,

out of dust,

could grow

sunday

we are free

we aren't

bearings

make me a place where widows come to rest

their calloused feet, beaten by summer granite

and cheap sandals.

a place whose story-telling walls

speak sleep to tired orphans.

make me a house without curtains,

with open rooms,

and life will be plenty.

let the doorlessness that i am be my new body:

a light that exists between

patches of dry grass.