Quasimodo

 

I remember the way I walked on that strand.

Semi-formed and alarmed,

Alone,

burning,

and hollow,

the overwhelming sense

of being not-quite-there.

 

Rooted in rootless wanderings,

when each step leads

to father’s jagged stone or

mother’s piercing shard,

it’s best to be careful,

above all,

not to expect a thing.