I’ve breathed in your dust through my eyes
smelt the waves lapping at your shore
I’ve heard the silent towers rise
felt skin part as they stabbed the skies
reflection of cranes on glass doors.
Who knows who has the right to call
your mud their bone or blood or home
and what’s that except a set of walls?
one trumpet note and that set falls,
the hallucination of room.
The hallucinations of roofs
and rooms, this nothingness enclosed
and dust breathed in without much proof;
home always, but at a remove,
conflicts, and space juxtaposed.