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Rated: 13+ · Prose · Writing · #1919612
You left for the dock of the bay, your reasons and rhyme strung in long alliterations...
In the leaving

         for Sarah

You left for the dock of the bay, your reasons and rhyme strung in long alliterations lingering behind, a wake of starlight on ripples and waves. Now the night embraces you in a city so big all of your friends and all Montanans could fit in it. Do you fit in? Is this the right place? You've graced it with your being. Has it graced you in return, greeted you, smiled and embraced you ... as you deserve. Are you being you? Do its towers shrink you; does the ocean beckon?

And when the fog rolls in are you happy with wetness on your cheeks in that city that seldom sleeps. Do you weep for having left us or for those of us who'll never leave? What new weaves of images and sound resound in your poetry? Have you found fame or notoriety or seek the same: a place to call home, friends that make it home.

Have you found a job that allows you to breathe? When you smell salt in the air, hear gull-squawk on the breeze do you taste us, hear us? And what flies overheard that's not reflected in water, the womb that surrounds you in the blinking of streetlights or stars.

© Kåre Enga [168.207] #12 November 9, 2011.

Note to self, earlier versions:

You left for the dock of the bay, your reasons and rhyme strung in long alliterations lingering behind. A wake of starlight on ripples and waves. Now the night embraces you in a city so big all of your friends and all of Montana could fit in it. Do you fit? Is this the right place? You've graced it with your being. Are you being you? Has it graced you, greeted you, smiled and embraced you ... as you deserve. Do its towers shrink you; does the ocean beckon.

And when the fog rolls in are you happy with wetness on your cheeks in that city that seldom sleeps. Do you weep for having left us or for us who'll never leave?
What new weaves of images and sound resound in your poetry? Have you found fame or notoriety or seek the same: a place to call home, friends that make it home.

Have you found a job that allows you to breathe? When you smell salt in the air, hear gull-squawk on the breeze do you taste us, hear us? And what flies overheard that's not reflected in water, the womb that surrounds you, the blinking of streetlights or stars.
© Copyright 2013 Kåre Enga, P.O. 22, Blogville (enga at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1919612