I remember the way I walked on that strand.

Semi-formed and alarmed,



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.

How the Light Gets Through

One thought on “Quasimodo

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