Whitman was never my thing.

In fields of grassy splendor,
An army of thin blades swipes at my shins,
It is here that I heed the gentle wisps
Of who I am.

Have you heard the whispering of the acres?
Have you felt your own breath slip in through the pine, vine,
Earthy meadows, purpled shadows, whiskers and into open spaces
To disintegrate into dust?

Have you seen the notes of your song
Dancing along the chords of a tree branch?

I have possessed nothing,
Only this and from this day forward I shall possess
Nothing but this.

And now, it seems the widening rays of the sun
Capture me like bars of a prison.

And I feel that I am at home on this earth.
And I feel not at all like a prisoner.

I lay and because I understand the lyrics,
You understand them.

They linger and sidle dirty skyscrapers,
Riding on top, mastering and taming them
Until they are polished and beautiful and the architecture
Of their faces shows lips pursed in the singing of a note.

And the city too, knows its song.

The lyrics bounce around with the desert sand
Careening and tumbling over and above the dunes
A quiet and explosive sound.
And an ocean of brown and gold and white spreads its body vast.

The waves roll and its song is played.

And the language of the lyrics I understand
Because I have always understood.

Rejoice and celebrate for your song is that of my own,
And of the city and of the desert.
But it is yours.

Like this one.
Like that one.
Like this one.