Nita Reitter

The stars are the only true map for a man who doesn't want to be found

I found a discarded map in the dirt and realized the road had changed its mind

The smell of a wet wool blanket is the smell of a cold night in a canvas tent

We are the ink on a shipping label attached to a crate going to a nameless harbor

The ocean’s tide at midnight is a dark broom sweeping away the day’s plastic wreckage

I saw a stray hawk nesting on a rusty water tower and saw the king of the rust belt

The city’s breath smells of burnt sugar, damp concrete, and the ozone of passing trains

We are the dust on the jukebox needle, adding a little grit to the classic country tune

The city is a carousel that spins the tired dreams of those who forgot to get off. 💎🎨

We are the sparks that think we’ve finally set the heavy, black midnight on fire. 🛰️🧭