in the dark byways of the world,
sunk inside the glistening bricks of seaside alleys
and conjoined to blank concrete in los angeles,
in the paths where no one thinks to walk
there are secrets, and they hide me from you.
here between the tall brick homes,
where the sidewalk blocks don't connect so square,
i slip between the cracks and against the pebbles
and under the cement, and the roads
bear their burden over my head and do not comment.
along these paths, then, i am free to walk
and wander as i will, against or away
from the sun or the rain, towards heat
or enveloping cold, and the roads don't speak,
they don't even know my name.
i help to push a single blade of grass
into unlikely places, between bricks and blocks,
hoping you see it and wonder of me.
i'm not dead, but these roads don't know my name
and they give me shelter and won't give me away.