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.