There is much to recommend
staying where you are. Local
knowledge is the truest kind.
But the suitcase is in my closet once again.
The streets cough up a language
my dog can't comprehend.
These moves choose me like love.
Or when love dies but clings
until I cut the white bars of skin
against the sharpest rock I find
to crawl newborn in the sun.
Staying where you are
you can still be startled in small ways:
the August lightning, an implausible death,
a glance in the bathroom mirror from a graceless angle.
But to move again!
The brain patterns itself and strains;
synapses brighten, then dim.
The rabbit heart beats wildly
in its tough tortoise skin.
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Comments about this poem (Expatriate by michael hogan )
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
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(6 August 1809 – 6 October 1892)
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