At Home

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.