Sometimes I like it here.
It is a soundless ruin that
still somehow shouts 
many millions of stories
through broken toothed windows.
Every block is a shelf
stacked and sagging with histories
of all things said and done and
what went unsaid and undone.
All these buildings falling
quietly around me
have spoken volumes
about what it means to rotate 
and yet stand still-
to stand in one place and spin
without ever consciously committing
to this act of growing old.
In this place I have decided-
for the first time
to put my story down
into the spaces left open
between streets and sidewalks-
these streets and sidewalks.
I lay myself down
one letter at a time
alongside my neighbors knelt 
with their hands in this dirt
digging in search of themselves and
finding the place they
will one day lie down.
I want my hands dirty 
like theirs
and my porch crumbling
showing evidence of life and time
and wearing this dirt and time
in that old book dignity-
broken-spined and dusty but
still there with something to say.


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