Can the ordinary be foreign as the death of a cloud?

 
 
No grief is foreign to us
anymore: the grief of birds
stranded between seasons,
the fruit on the tree
still green as a stone with no
way to hasten its sugar. New
strains invisibly misting
each bench in the park, yellow
Xs of tape marking off space
on one side. Before sleep
we turn on our bellies to widen
the passages air might take
to our lungs. When we dream, 
sometimes it is of that country
we lived in before we arrived,  not
here where the woods hoist
unrecognizable flags.
 
 
                                        ~ after Dave Bonta
 
 

In response to ViaNegativa:.

 

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