I guess the thing that eluded me first
Poetry didn't flow out of me like a divine diarrhea
(waiting for an open mic stage
where people are half listening
and half going over their poems praying
you don't read another one).
Is it because poetry didn't know
which pore to seep out of and witness for herself
just how lost and found I really am?
I have no idea what I am seeing for the first time
and I am without stanza or cause
Empty. Like tears that aren't mine.
I have felt fear for so long
What better to replace it with
than Jazz on rustic historic stone
shining pebbles that dare call themselves
a street in Edinburgh.
So far from home.