the tall trees of Corning, New York,
find me thinking about the clouds
shape me.
in the way of nights
spent finding your Picasso,
I try to keep my beginners mind
and move my feet in defense.
2017 is almost over.
and it will be 2027 sooner
than we think, if we make it.
I leave with style,
breaking up with yesterland
and breaking tomorrow's heart.
the bus ride back
is taller than the whole congregation
and my chest is loud
because we all have our private wars.
no matter where,
hopefully who,
all else is fire.