Depart from the shifting threshold of presence that gathers time around itself, and face the void of a fragmentary memory.
Stare deep into the past and dwell there, in the absence of earth, as the last light fails and the rain extinguishes celosia heads.
There is no homeland and there is no place worth longing for.
The nocturnal abyss of crickets and the perfume of soot are our only conciliation.
The nocturnal abyss of crickets and the perfume of soot are our only conciliation.
There is no homeland, nor was there before.
August 3, 2012
