Getting to South Africa took
many papers.
Today they are in the trash.
My bedroom has changed little since
leaving and
the house
is quiet.
I don't know how I like my tea anymore.
Where can I go to remember myself?
The church, the mall,
a book, a meal,
my studio, my music,
running down the road?
Instead of myself,
I find new life
sprouting from
return to old ritual:
pen to page,
paint to canvas,
knife to carrots and cucumbers,
the walk down the driveway in the morning
where Americans are
the most important
war casualties to be announced.
