The Non-Native
In the city of clocks where the seconds bleed blue,
Walks the man who is surely not from Timbuktu.
He carries a suitcase of unspoken rain,
And a compass that points to the center of pain.
His hat is a nebula, tilted just so,
While his shadow’s melting in lambent-lit snow.
He drinks from a cup filled with yesterday’s noise,
And trades his reflection for the clockwork of toys.
He wasn’t born by a map or a dust-covered street,
With the roots of the stars tangled under his feet.
He asks for the way to a place with no name,
While his pockets spill over with fresh frozen flame.
Don’t look for his passport in the shifting sand,
He’s a ghost with a sunflower held in his hand.
A traveler whose born from a glitch in the sky,
With a thousand years tucked in the hub of his eye.
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