The trees which one time clothed your naked frieze
were where the essence of me played my hide-
and-seek from mythologic entities
and where, when gazing at the stars, I cried.
I’ve walked your hillpine corridors before
by rays sent from your almost-midnight sun.
From Nothing Forest, too, I walked the shore
of iced-up waters, hunting with my son.
How can I now account for déjà vu
each day since I stepped foot upon your stones?
I have some history here (and future too);
it fills my cells and penetrates my bones.
Each time I hear your name on subways said,
an atavistic bell chimes in my head.
© Alan Morrison, 2016