On a swivel chair, I look around
the time capsule of my head
flies and devises stories

of memories and images
that pass, I travel
to my birth country

It does not exist, never
it has existed, it is a soup

of ingredients picked life-
long at my feet, cooked
in the pan of my skull

.....The fresh soup now
.....from my birth country
.... tastes different, really

.....I see it
.....at the plants and the varieties