The Circle That Circles In... Poem by RIC BASTASA

when i speak
i do not really map out home

when the home erases the
paths towards it

it does not speak about
a misfortune

such is the rule of the pigeons
their sense of home is tattooed

on their feathers as light as
a paper where a letter about sorrow is written

as it is
things only become themselves

as air becomes guests of the curtains
they signify what presence is all about

it could be about us
or the others

there is no perfect map
to differences that scatter themselves like fingers

but soon when a prayer is formed
the hands cup like home

where as you see
we first began