I have yet to read a side view mirror
tell me that the things I’m running
from are as close as they look now.
I have yet to read the gospel of the
messiah yet to come, yet to read the lines
in her eyes from the sleepless nights in a
garden unnamed, or the songs written
in her long forgotten native tongue.
I have yet to read the DNA of a starfish
transpose to English, or even french or
anything outside this four rune gibberish.
I have yet to read the constitution drafted
after my dive-bar waitress’ civil war with
beauty; in that long awaited season of bloom.
I have yet to read a collection of tree rings.
I have yet to read the 19 year overdue explanation
from my mother, or the apology note after she
realized that there was nothing she could say.
I have yet to read my unborn daughter’s vows
to a man or woman who will hold on to her words
like they were the proclamation of their freedom.
I have never read a kite becoming kindling for
funeral pyres, yet to read a guitar snapping
its own strings to become a birdhouse for homeless
robins, yet to read the headlines saying a train
vanished, tracks and all, to appear somewhere else.