I’m not here and I’m not there.

I’ve fallen down a cleft in a cavern of my mind,

into an injured ocean rich with silty buried treasures. 

I lost my bearings in the straights of memories 

between that shore where tall pines needle their way 

into my wounded life to weave up the fray,

and that cityscape of stoops and hot manhole covers 

built to hold out against the winter steam.

Snagged in the rift, my wayward toe is caught by the  monster sea:

Waiting, lying, keening,

 “There will always be time for love and time for making do. “

The Old Denver Post Office and Courthouse