Stuck in the geography of your own body
you’re shaken down like rice, grounded in your skin, parked.
A billion birches become birch becomes balance.
Smoke lifts from black dwellings out there on black soil -
are root vegetables on the boil? Is the satellite dish rattled
by the wind whipping the grasses?
A woman is bending to her chickens.
A man walks in a brown field, casting no shadow.
Notions of home in the remotest of strangers.