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May 18 2008


The place I was born
is occupied by strangers.
And my parents, unsentimental
threw out box-after-box,
moving on.
As I did, once;
so now I live in a different city
one time zone later.

Here, there are mountains
instead of lake,
and the streets are wider, straighter,
and there are no secret places
from childhood.
So I feel off-kilter, some days,
wishing I could stand by the shore
lulled by waves
the breeze steady, fragrant.

And if the world ends
it will be one hour later
— as if an hour was warning enough
to prepare.
The sun is the same, of course
but the light is different,
a thin pale glow
so things look cool, distant.
It’s the pure mountain air, they say,
but I don’t know.
I think it’s my eyes
getting older.

I suppose I have lived here long enough
to call it home.
In this house,
where I keep my things;
where I go
to sleep;
and the days seem unnaturally brief
hemmed-in beneath the peaks.