We could make a home
out of what we forgot –
the memories, the visions
of heaven, the songs
whose words we wrote down
on tattered napkins. Then
we could plaster it with paintings
and call it secure. In the rain
and snow, we could look
out the window, and wonder
if we birthed an entire city
in the vast wasteland outside.
Then, look back inside
our bodies, and make
a new country entirely
out of the poems sketched
on our backs, which no one
had the good sense to erase.
No comments:
Post a Comment