After the flood

After hurricanes sank our tin
and cardboard houses, sucked

them into the creek; after
the Lions’ & Women’s & Rotary

Clubs got tired of bringing relief
goods and water to the gym; after

the renegade sun returned, pretending
nothing happened— we too came back

to the same ground, raked over mud
plots that would harden anew. Who owns

the earth anyway? Who learned to blur
the edges of what having means?

Our bodies furnish these lives. We pick
through what chance and the winds unmoor:

a good doorpost, a window frame, an inner tube.
Any kind of thing to stand for some idea of home.


In response to Via Negativa: Endarkenment.

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