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.
