I am from a hungry sun unsated
from sewer smoke and old trees
I am an eviction notice swept
into yesterday’s trash.
(but it’s okay,
      nothing lasts forever:
everything is changing
         and the sidewalk tastes
                   of past lives.)
I am from burnt coral pine needles -
dug into the soil
clawing, rooting into
ageless thighs
forever in a dream
an old static VCR loop
where we stayed
forever by
the lake.

I am from old
new farms,
(quiet ghosts
     weeping in the
rafters,
    and
   family  photos)
attic-squatting:
never coming
home.

peeling paint
trembling apartments
creaking floors
dirt driveways
sparkling water
couch made of wine stains
home made of humans
forest of suns -
   (there are faces
    in-between,
    blurred photographs
    and burning meteors
    in a shoebox
    made of steel.
    I keep it this way,
    so we’re always
    together.)