fennesz

I ask you: maybe I should leave

My ticket is not here, but the next one over 

Could you point to me where it leads 

The seats here feel stuffy, like the third grade bus

I ask you: what sights are there to see

I have written myself into the stones of the places I have inhabited, at the very least, does it not despise my handwriting on their walls 

My port is of Toledo descended 

Each boat lies there in its dock, their conditions unmatched

Canova found godliness within Perseus 

Perhaps my well worn shoes see it all just the same