Lithuania

I'm quite a fan of trying to fit into places I only somewhat belong to. In this case, a country, back in time.

Spiraling into perfect soil, my roots.

Ghost roots.

Backed up before Ellis Island bridges,

A close encounter of the Québécois kind-

A rare vacation into all-too-urban Nouvelle York

Sung with shameless scratch and spit

A flashing gaze at strangers clothed in curtains

And ornate milk-jug bands as hats.

Too quick to see headdresses high as clouds

Cloth rough as bark,

Skin flushed with journey.

They heard the folk songs as clear as I do.

Though I am in pants, the horror,

And America, the question,

And trying to follow the dirt, the music, the shammash, the answers

Back across the ocean
Via the boat.

Stowaway.