In Between the Margins

The tent stakes leave small wounds

in the earth. Perfect circles

that will grass over by spring,

erasing the fact that you were here.

That you arranged your few books

in a line like soldiers.

That you saved bread crusts

for the seagulls who never came.

The city breathes you out

like fumes

dissolving in the wind.

So you walk—

Santa Monica to Venice to—

the horizon offers no promises,

only the illusion of forward motion.

You are walking away from home.

You are walking toward home.

You are home

walking with itself

on its back.