Looking back on my life, the color of my life
would be called "Not Fair" or "…And Then You Die."
When I die, I want to be placed among the stars
awkwardly, like a knick-knack, or at least not
permanently. That sound is the ill wind. It blows.
I will name my homesickness "Nostalgia of Hatred."
I preferred having enemies. I felt like they knew me.
Knew me, at least, by the trappings of the living:
the moth. The coat. The ghost downstairs.