I am the outlier
toward a route,
I am the proclivity
toward disbanding communes. 

I am the lock
picked and forgotten
on the storm door,
I am longing itself
plucked and mounted
on the den wall. 

I am
without heteronyms,
without Whitman,
Pessoa,
I am this plain,
unbannered song
of go-low yearning
caught inside the frame
of a habitat gone wrong.

I am fallen
winged fruit
through quilled foliage
surrounding the roots

of our tough elastic wood
into another millennium,
a clique fallen
loud and brash
without an echo.