To the new streets
of foggy mountain
foreign nowhere,
the same as the familiar
ones I’ve left before.

To this plastic heart
lost in the back-alley
storefronts of places
I’ve already been
to somewhere else.

To the muddy
Appalachian Spring,
washed orange in the filth
of the lives I’ve left
behind, the earth stained
brown, and I am again
washed anew.

Neil Womack

Poet, connoisseur of naps. Check out my blog here:

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