It was a rosebay morning
and I was painted into something
I could never be
violet roses and prose
kept me going, going
nowhere and everywhere
and I was sure that
eventually
I would find my way.
It took me a year to find my place again
the wilderness of the world was never large enough
to hide my pain and sincerity from the world
and bright lights and freeways
freed me from fragility
(I think)
And I travel, the hitchhiking poet
Indian statesman, political, wild,
ultimately unstable and beautiful
a gossamer thin wineglass
in a world of chaos and hope
and I hope
that hope
is enough
to keep me from breaking again.