We continue to watch his landmarks shift
to an empire he can no longer cross into.
A garden far beyond the Tree line dusk there
harbors all of creation he can no longer name.
Family photos now seem to him like penny postcards sent
by strangers, wordless, arriving without address,
depicting foreign places, the injuries Time inflicts,
and room after room of people he does not know.
This poem first appeared in Kissing Dynamite (Issue 14, February 2020, now defunct)