AMP: Artists' Meeting Place and Resource Collective

I ride past fields of thawing mud
the bare oaks still covered with snow,
I ride through towns so small
and so silent that the shy wave
of the girl downtown on her bike
who was in each of us those towns,
was enough to welcome me.
Maybe, if I had chosen
any of those towns could've served
as a destination,
as a place to rest the engine;
but more, a place
where I might have lived another life
that I couldn't live anywhere else
How much of our lives have we spent
in transit,
between people, places, things
even ideas of ourselves that we can commit to?
For whatever reasons,
as afternoon becomes evening

In Coffeehouse shadows,
Moonlight collects on faces
Of silver wear,
Reflects off my earrings
Brightens the ragged skies
Of my half-open windows,
Your eyes are miles of sun filled shoreline
Filled with invitation
To leave this grey-stained city I have become.
Cups rattle, strangers whisper
As I listen in sin,
And graze on the damp fur of rumor.
But then your voice sighs
Through my hollows
I push away from those shallows of myself,
Force my fingers across distances
To find hands that beckon
Toward Your sweet and foreign country.