Inside you are birds,
Chirping with fear and delight.
Inside you is the filth over black drapes
(Grey, clinging
it tasted like death.)
Inside you is the blue grass
the Minnesota Dandelions
whose golden tops you collect
as if they were unknown.

Inside you is bread and seagulls,
from Duluth and Lutsen.
Inside you is mostly flannel and worn
shoes,
from relatives and strangers.
Inside you are the lines Et tu,
Brutus?
and hope you can save yourself.

Inside you are leaves and seeds,
scattered amongst the yard,
on the patio broken from the
weather
the fence you shut to keep them out.
In the fire was an empty box
gasping dark thoughts,
a hand of found faces
to threaten within your dreams.

Inside you are those moments --
sprouting, fading, holding --
never far from the house.

**Inspired by "Where I'm from" by George Ella Lyon



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