Poet 11586

I am old here without your tongue

i must complete
this morning's traditions,
smoothly as best i can,
transition the dead bolt turning.
there is the feast to
eulogies to compose
to unknown lovers,
heroes frozen to the floors
of transit points,
vast blue-iced miles presented
as gifts.
no amount of looking can change
the distant truth
that these wrinkled traditions
possess us
like great white birds flying
to canada,
i am old here without
your tongue
it is foreign,
as foreign as you and mine.