I have stopped writing in my own city
I write in Europe in bed in front of Semu’s Gabriel

I write on flights in clouds
when sudden night arrives by afternoon

I write at the gates of temples neon-lit proclaiming salvation
and when the lion eyes of hungry children
choose the word within my chest
above the broken bread in hand

my city is my ghost
I come home to die and lose the decorated woman in the mirror
and fall in love again with likened figures

the un-moored moons of my childhood
rest across the rock of grandpa’s face.