Again, we turn down the familiar
lane and its favoring ghosts. Each
house we’ve named after inhabitants
now replaced by inhabitants
who themselves have moved on.
Slight widening of a driveway.
Ash tree felled by lightning,
now the memory of a tree
igniting the map of the mind. Sound
of geese overhead, returning
to wherever geese return. Is there
no place but the places we carry
with us? Everything is in love
with weather, unattached to the
future. Inside, young versions of self
still hang in frames, immune, closets
refuse to be cleared of the last
century, and the ticking clock
every hour comes with the call
of a bird whose name we believe
we know but can’t quite recall.
Read more from Issue No. 23 or share on Facebook and Twitter.