Sense of Place

I stood among crosses
Celtic and catholic
and gave away my compass
sword, and stiletto.

I shook my fist
filled with fervor
and Irish clover
and swore
and swore
that there’d be no more.

Time stood still
as I stared through a veil
and saw a future
braided like a stream.
A delta
many branches
choices
chalices
cups to pass
things come to pass
all of them
all serene.

Oaths on sacred ground
all spilled on sacred ground.

I stood on 11^th and E
Southeast Washington
DC
and admired the utility
of yet another architect
enamored with his own
reflection
and the irony in the courtyard
the swaying “forget-me-nots”
where I watched a man die
in a pool of black blood
before the real renaissance
before there was this place
at the departure
of heart and soul.

There is no sacred ground
only the transience of the profane
and the inhumane
and our spying
on sense of place
reinventing the myth
of “happiness”
which is like “happening”
but worse.