Stephani Schaefer

Detroit

Wind takes his hat, last shelter.

No matter. He will go from one

broken house to another,

a shadow in search of home.

He will sleep to gritty wind

rattling torn corners, and wake

to stray light fingering his face.

When he rises, he will be light itself.

He will walk each room, to touch a chair,

a picture, a cooking pot, these mute things

that remember touch. He will do this

for each empty house on the street.

You can almost see a tree sprouting

where he stood, about to bloom.

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