Our Trespasses

Again she asks
the water
droplet on a corner
table who owns

the land. Who
owns you—precious

liquid, tiny reservoir
of truth? What’s

an embarrassment
of papers mean
in a flood? Or,
incurable thirst? I’ll mop

you up—but
I won’t buy.



Whatever happened to Dumptruck? What
got lost in the Portland quarry has been

recycled into Brooklyn brownstone tall
tales. I used to shout: “Get off

my island” too. Followed by the refrain:
“No one owns

the land.” Thought I was so clever
discovering her getaway

path—used to be mine. You didn’t want
to take it till it became

hers. And definitely no one owns
the water between—no matter

what anyone says. That includes you
singing or talking in your sleep.