The long slow ride, from being an alien
to becoming a suburban-ite,
what changes is
you no longer need a home,
the illusion of connection traded
for the one of sameness;
the all-consuming eye
that lays waste to life
And takes what it calls
excitement
now fertilizes smaller plots, cultivates
a more mannered death.
Negotiations between weeds
and blossoms
in a long-term engineering project
to turn toads into frogs
(as if a childhood imagined through
could be recalled, much less used);
what you imagine now
becomes much smaller,
that the people who love you
won't leave,
Though they always
do.
The lonely dog beyond the backyard
howls and howls,
that is your perfection,
only marred
by the pause it takes to listen
for a response.
