
homeless in america
we imagine we were born
here. if home is where the heart is
then why are we so anxious
to leave? why can we see it only
once we’ve gone? it’s not about walls
and floors, windows and things. america
is a place of coming to, not from, the land
of the rootless. we roll across this landscape
like dunes stepping along a shore. we
are the forgetting ones, the ones who’ve left
are leaving, will leave- homelessness
the scourge of our age; even the cleanest
among us sleeps under a bridge
of his own imagining.
we are late to this land
if you’re white, you’re not from here
where did you come from, where
will you go? so little time to build anything
of consequence. the land is indifferent
the land can wait us out
the lakes in this valley are shallow and wide
like the valley itself. the swans come here to nest
blowing primordial trumpets. in the fall
the ragged V’s of their white bodies press hard
into high white clouds, their trumpets echoing
across the valley. the young birds need to fly
after months of rest, to rebuild their strength.
the birds remember. soon, they will rise as one
body, will rise white against white clouds
will rise up and over the white snows
of the passes, and be gone. somehow
they have always known precisely
where they belong. and for this
we must surely envy them
©J.A. Fink/Oldbonesnewsnow.com 2013