Azaleas

Azaleas

If sleep is a city you can’t find
again, float toward it by picturing
the streets you used to walk along.
Fill in the holes, the pink azaleas
here, the post office here. The house
with the orange door here and
here, the house with dozens of
miniature ships in its window,
red and white. The scummy rocks
marked where the water once rested,
and the ducks, and the dogs,
and the air. Tell the world where
it belongs, in pieces.