Going Home

Years into the future, you'll find an almost-
country in streets and houses that have 

vanished, in rotted planks that once held up 
the pier. From a certain spot looking west, 

the sun spilled ink pots of rust and orange.
You could write, on paper, that the light

was beautiful or that after, night broke open
to swallow the ruins. You could write: here

men arrived, preaching their gospel of
advantage, throwing nets over the sides

of their boats to harvest the last of fallen
stars. Touch a finger to broken tile.

Remember an old alphabet, how it used
to live in leatherbound pages or a box 

inlaid with mother-of-pearl. City gates
were built against onrushing waters,

where once people stood exchanging
goodbyes but delaying their actual

departure. Under every archive of what
vanished lies another archive the color

of bleached coral. Ask the weaver 
birds where their home is, as they bend

sticks and straw into shapes their bodies
will fit into. Ask yourself when it is time 

to stand under a tree and shed your clothes, 
waiting to be wrapped up in its arms.