at the end of our visits, we always
lose the lights that guide our eyes.
we channel sun gods for bad advice,
and demons for spontaneous instruction.

the backyard is full of ghosts,
in the ashtrays & under fallen leaves
& it's not the haunting, so much as the
knowledge of it that follows you, hopefully,
on your perilous flight to follow.

the streets back home are worn & tortured,
from sneakers & boots we could never fit into.
they beat down the plazas & dirty sidewalks
to deliver answers in inquisitive fashions.
they're so gregarious, but flightless,
motherless, living for those tiny moments,
like chickens in free fall.

but us, once we're pacified & silent again,
we'll breathe easier & we'll reach impossible heights.
with our bare hands extended we'll
pull moons like oceans, in every direction
and world where we travel.

so, if we never choke on the auras around us,
we'll be giants, tall enough to see
gods if they're out there.
humble & stupid, with timid intentions,
but the glow in our cheeks should
grow graceful with time.