Forest Hills , like Old Riga I knew

busy with sunbeams

between them I am a long way from home

that place they think I am from

a place that clouds me, retrieves

the sky and all its blue

a place where shadows walk

along the avenue

and no news

from the loved ones.

 

Yellow leaves whirl under what seems

to be heels of my feet. Red and green

seen too. Darkness. The hissing wind

passes, lies me to the ground – I sleep.

This place, it’s cold and flooded

and I departed

from it – not quite

as far as clear sky

landing on the other side.

The sea.

 

Early one morning wrinkled, perfumed, and adorned

Oysters I call them – meet.

Sweet Mary – dead, holds fresh daisies in arms

offered to her by a lover

and I lie holding my breath most of the time

under the sheet – my bare feet

missing shoes –

there weren’t many to choose

I only had one pair –

and they were lost too. I can’t compare

life spent here or there

both slice me in to

create a new silence

in me. I can’t really

grow heavy – cupped in moments

reminding me I am a two sided door.