Assateague Island, Poetry, Yakov Shteynman

Assateague Island

The only way to wear those shoes, is drive back where I’d born anew.

Where the horses walked and came the tide.

When it was new and so was I.

But here I walk, again in time, through what was once so vitalized. I see myself

and what I thought, and how I walked. In these moments of art, an idled flock. Like birds, who glide amongst the stars.

Yet even in this favorite crime, may we hope we’re never paralyzed: or dumb

enough to look down.

Yakov Shteynman