Fringes of your shadow in the dusk
are diverging from my own;
a table's set between my forearms
and the climate of your features:
uneasy ghosts of rented homes.

Beneath the sloping wired glass
which graphs clouds' shifting light
we swallow the incidents, food;
our small lawn's unevennesses
grown when we weren't looking.

This desiring to possess our lives-
we barely lived. As night extends
a distance between us,
not far, the look in your eye
asks what do you make of me.

We do not own the thing we are.
Against walls your family name
reverberates: brought home,
...