The old moon is waiting,
swallowed by a mouth of clouds
It is there-
restless, yellow, and shivering amidst
white phoenixes plumetting
into the backs of black houses,
looming ghosts of concrete and wood
Feeble, I am-
wrapped in blankets,
unyeilding as the tree beneath
the floors beneath my feet
beneath the unbearable weight
of my permanence
I have brought myself
far from the raging waves
of the ocean of my history
and with me
the quiet satellite
Old as I am,
yellow as my palms,
rested restlesness
shivering in the distance.
