Even if just

in memory.

Even if submerged by polar melt,

even if the city becomes filled,

filled with people who hate you. This land will always

cheer for you because even when you are here,

your soft impression is somewhere else

with your memory, somewhere

in the basement, which must be the oldest

part of any house, though you’ve been in town

long enough to know

there are exceptions

to even the most logical laws.

Last night, a movie of rain,

last night, igniting your batteries,

and you ran toward the old city’s

tribute, longing for recognition

of what this land might mean collectively

even though the officials

with their umbrellas and clipboards

had already decided what to inscribe on the plaque.

Official has never meant accurate, here.

This land doesn’t need a second memory:

the land is its memory.