You call it homeland. Someplace

where rain runs down

grooves into the mouths of raccoons

or other urbanized animals,

but I have no direction to anything

but a half-hearted dive bar

or the nearest Burger King.

You have to understand

what geography means to me:

concrete, blacktop, fannys, runts.

To the right, you can find a marooned tree

with a misused condom at its base—I sat

in its grass, exhausted, only to find the sod

had not taken root. And there is no skyline

to speak of, there is no roll in the land,

you see too much, too far. Neighbors shutter

themselves, convinced that someone

is always looking. Learn little tactics

to stay connected: speak through sewer.

pipes, glass halls with buffed foil mirrors.