for emma, forever ago

i remember when i used to do this thing.

i was five.

and i would walk away, from the house of sons and peters...

i would find a place. far from there. grab a stick. and sit.

digging into the surface of the rocks. i kept digging. removing each rock from it's fevered domain. digging. i kept digging.

or i would go to the woods. and sit. with a stick. and dig. knowing that each displacement only lead to further displacement.

and now, my clouded woods are a back parking lot. a rocked ground on the back end.

i pulled out a stick tonight. and dug. removing each rock, from it's fevered domain. sitting in the dirt, the mudded ground at the back end of the lot. amidst automobiles and silly greek songs.

i sat down. and dug. kept digging. one hand holding the native addiction. the other, a stick. a bigger stick. i sat and dug. removing each rock. only to find more. but some comfort in the childlike nostalgia.

some loneliness still. in the filled gravel. noting a dead branch ahead of me. and a dead stick held. and a rock removed.

and then i went inside. and found a friend named andre. and sat.

i sat down and dug, kept digging. only to find a deeper rock, hidden. disabled from movement.

i sat down. and remembered.