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misstree
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at night, i can't see the mountains.
my streets were all streets in
womblike presummer, slight breeze
gentle, the same heat as skin.
cats come out to greet me, each their own,
reminding me, making me speak a language
more simple, but elegant and beautiful.
so many streets. so many faces have i been.
yet a dress as second skin thirteen years,
the same me underneath, but so very much not.
but a steady hand guided my walk,
a relief simply because it Was,
and i was everywhere i should have been
to remind me
that i have paced these streets before
and that once upon a time
i was different
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060516
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