Both place-based and place-less, this is a poem of great disloyalty. These are interactive objects discolored by the touch of people’s hands.
It is time to look at the concentric rings of once-whole wood. Here is the drought that starved us out. Here, the fire that barely killed us.
We contract the disease that killed him —remember which salad dressing to order, but not the man we cherished like a vow.