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
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