Landing Place

 Landing Place

Shelves, cubby holes, armoires and wardrobes

Cabinets, boxes, suitcases and attics

Canisters, trundles, balconies, and bundles

Places to put, places to store all stuffed and crammed

With collectibles of other lives, of other ties and binds

Of immutable attachments of those times to define

Who and what and when and where

The afflictions of happenings with no space to spare

A wrinkle, an inkling, a line in a diary for transposing

The arrangement of syllables and letters and all the accents

To exchange the memories for better than from external standpoints

At minimum that mine could be the vantage point

To view the crevices in the clothing, the nudity in the disrobing

Of a body fluttering in naked butterfly wings, pattering like under wing eyes blinking

In between these tiny spaces I keep on thinking

Is this all I will ever have?  A view askew

A telescope for my microscope to see up close from inappropriate distances

Too far off or in the mud of the moment with my love with no place to go

Out there buffering on that January breeze, bustling and bursting these knees

In stretched out ligaments incapable of the dexterity to locate a vagabond landing point

Exhausted and frosted over in the chills feeling I am equidistant to the end and the beginning

Cornered off into this point of no return these red flush wind burns

Runway strip to plant these rooted grips of rubber soul wing tips

Fashionable and scuffed, marathon rebuffed, storage house stuffed

No room in the inn, not worthy of the manger, accepting the desert is more friend than stranger

The counts of these sands a worth while task with the time that shifts to pass

Requesting me like a melody of an empty apartment, a flat to settle down,

Accoutrements of better sounds abound out the boxes stacked in an abdomen carcass

Plop them out and the ruckus, just accept it, like a deposit paid, a devil’s contract made

That this cell is the tale to tell in a eulogy of miniscule repeating that this is how love landed

Silent and alone on a three a.m. prop plane on a Thursday night intake,

No navigator, no air traffic controller, just a small squeak of tires to concrete

Singular un-boarding, homeland security staying home and out of this cockpit I roam

Clutching this jacket, a cannibal for my own meat, hungry and incomplete

Fumbling for this latch key, waxing the aperture of this entry door, understanding

This is my landing