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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