How Many Times My Eyes Have Opened

Each new earth, once unlidded, works a change.

I blink, I blink, no ideawhat scrub this is, the evergreensnot quite green, or any color.

A right-angle of timberis the side of a house.

      Yes, I think,

the houseI was born in,

beside its plots for poppies,its Library for the Futurewhere parents storedthe little black seeds—

so I might wander back from exilenot wholly erased.

Of course, I do go back.

She takes shorthand. He delivers tools.They don't know yetwhat's to see, what's to lose.

O always, are you always always      always?

A silence spoken by earthquake,a canyon dropping toward center.

But they are ready for me somehow.Light bounces, and I blink.

Here you are—they hand over the housein jagged, jigsawed glass.