Home does not come to me
in careful images of my memory,
but in distant, violent flashes
like a psychic vision
of some grand former life.
And I am reincarnated daily
by London’s expanse,
fresh imprints of
hot reds and greens—
neon and christmas and curry.
But Seattle’s black sidewalks
still cough with smoke,
breathe with moss,
and brighten the back
of my eyelids.
I would possess Oklahoma too
in these astral projections
but avoid chance encounters
with the unkind spirit
of my past self.