I am my home,
my real estate.
Memory contests the deed
and title, would
force me to live
in recall, a phantom
condominium of fate.
I am the shack
of me, a self with rooms,
a past out back,
an attic that looms.
This is why blankets
at 4: 14 a.m. feel
(why rain badgering
roof over the roof
of me sounds) so
fine, appeal.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem