POEMS/
Time Travel
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Time Travel
I have come back: squeak of cast iron gate, pass post box beneath a lime tree arch where my eyes lift, follow the bike ramp to the side of steps— my shoulders, hands know the push and grip of steep ascent. A sweep of stone wings, an open river of domestic rock, leads to yellow door, mosaic floor; a flood of blackbird song in summer’s late light. A girl in tennis white I enter what was once home to pick up glasses I’ll not need until years from now, and take a thick book— Mandela's song, years before he writes or I discover the rough blue walls, of my Calvinist prison, or find the need to sing freedom’s song, kin-song; find the right tone to break walls. |