From above, stolen 
land here is brown, green, mauve:  
          as if a child’s hand drew a frog’s palm, 
          colored it so. Slender fingers, meaty 
          ends— 
here again buildings bend but do not fall, bear  
shadows almost black, interrupted by a splinter  
of silver country road here or there.

         When my elders passed I lost 
more than their poise or laughter or mischief 
or their small cruelties or care—long muscle 
of history, sliver of my very first breath.

         To leave, to arrive— 
 to catch a self at home.