a home at the edge of its land

At around 6 in the evening
a day after rain,
the city’s center feels to be
a home at the edge of its land.

Black kites roll, their evening tilts toward
the softened sun.

I sit on a terrace,
a rickety ladder fallen below me.

The clouds are kind,
white and soft with the memory
of warm rain.
The afternoon’s cream is light.

Sometimes,
I write poetry in German
so the words are simpler
in English.

Often,
the language you know
can get carried away
like feathers in high winds.

A stone’s throw away
a concrete pier weighs into
the lowering tide.

I have always wanted to walk out to the end
and turn around at night.

At around 6 in the evening
the ferocity of light
is mute after rain.
The ocean breaks a little softer,
the city’s center feels to be
a home at the edge of its land.

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