It's official- the pang of wanderlust that hit me on Saturday has widened into a full-fledged case of itchy feet.
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Lately, I've become accustomed to the way
The ground opens up and envelopes me
Each time I go out to walk the dog.
Or the broad edged silly music the wind
Makes when I run for a bus...
Things have come to that.
And now, each night I count the stars.
And each night I get the same number.
And when they will not come to be counted,
I count the holes they leave.
Nobody sings anymore.
And then last night I tiptoed up
To my daughter's room and heard her
Talking to someone, and when I opened
The door, there was no one there...
Only she on her knees, peeking into
Her own clasped hands
-LeRoi Jones (Amiri Baraka)
1 comment:
That poem is beautiful. I too count the stars that I can see on my street, the orange haze of a smog filled city night means I can differentiate one star from another, there is so much space between them. My record is 63 stars.
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