by Craig Nagoshi
This season’s tempests blustered you out
To sea, by the flash of fire
That consumed and passed those about
You. Amid concrete spires,
Asphalt tiers, and wheeling motion,
You are still, your last pursuits
Held in rapped devotion
In your hands, while familiar routes
To the heartland wither away.
To see, but never make a scene,
You just react in the passionless play
That casts you out, caught between
The tangled lines, each jutting peer,
With only the breakers near.