From the windows of countless dwellings
I’ve observed diverse geography
and stalked scores of plots and floor plans
in search of home.
Every house, each apartment or modest studio
even in tents, I concoct a spot to belong to.
I’ve grown tomatoes on fire escapes, sketched
maps on cabinet doors, and fastened hundreds
of post cards, leaving walls full of tiny holes that cry out
for putty when I go. Any sense of belonging is relished,
then fades. Everywhere I go, I imagine living there.
It’s never others I seek, but my own ground.
Nothing belongs to me. I know the grandeur
of oceans and mountains that are not mine. North Florida
came close: its underwater caves, cypress knees,
tannic rivers, fields of corn, and backyard hens.
I lock doors and think about who will live here
after I flee. I imagine my mark is left on every ground
another foolish aspiration.