For my kidnapper, the Samaritan
I live in a town where water becomes abstract
and the grass that you’ve sown into two piles
(from seed: one bluegrass one greengrass)
is growing and covering everything with a fine fuzz
so fine the blades become semi-identical; and all things
are hidden which might have helped me distinguish
neighbor from neighbor, know which neighbor to pull from the fire
that spreads like Easter grass over the red fences
(fences, that you say reinforce a sense of loneliness in this place
which is a nest which is the worst sort of a place
which is wherever you are) and yes they are calling me yes
they are roiling overhead (I hear them–thunderclouds)
but when I ask them for some answers they just say no
that doesn’t belong to you that doesn’t help you escape this time