Sport 40: 2012
it could be a woman
who shows me the way to the village
i’m looking for. it could be a village
with hostels for strangers
and pairs of eyes for counting.
it could be a village
with axes and spades, well known to me.
but at night my mother comes.
she points into the valley. none of that
belongs to us, she says.
my suitcases stand packed
in front of her door. I recite verses
they’re not songs, not lamentations,
just loose sound.