All That I Remember of Tin Cans and Bird Feathers

The childhood tree, which I used to climb, is still here,
but the car in which we kissed is gone.

A memory left in the branches of the backseat,

some of your hair,
I imagine, still in the fabric.

But, then again,
our eyes were closed most nights;
moving to the hum of the headlights.

Outside mosquitoes, living in Diaspora, completely
displaced, we realized
young people will find homes

away from home.

Collaborative poem with Vince Bauters