A Pilgrimage

My intention- to see you:

swirled up from the grey folds,

below the blue depth,

underneath the milky morning dream-

with no headline-

no warning.

Like the wiser, you won.

But you were not there.

And, so you were lost to me.

But you told me

to come!

You told me!

I came!

and you were not there.

Image

Your weathered treasures, pulpy pages,

inky idols, old friends

of mine lost:

to pre-vintage fabrics,

not the warmth

for which I search.

Image

In heels, over cobbled pathways,

through desolate neighborhoods,

I walk to you

down

Euclid

down

Alta,

so far

down:

To Haralson Avenue.

And there you were

And there I found

my old friends

waiting,

but waiting

in rusty silence,

waiting in

dust mote

sunshine,

waiting in

bohemian

wanderlust

unfulfilled.

Image

And,

you had called

so I could one day

resuscitate you.

I shall.

And you will

again inhabit

the crinkled

corner in which

you once held

a sketch by

Allen Ginsberg

in Little Five.

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4 responses to “A Pilgrimage

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