Triangulating
among two cities
and a desert:  where I have lived,
where I want to live.

The city by the sea;
the city in the central hills;
the desert far away
which I cannot deny still pulls.

I stay where I am,
trisected.  Here is where
I make my stand: not 
whole but contained,

feeling the parts straining
under the tug of all my possible
homes.  I won’t ever really belong
anywhere, I think.

They tell you it’s good
to put down roots, but
some roots work best ungrounded,
constantly sensing what’s on

the wind.  That’s me, I guess:
the air plant.  The one that grows
even with a tenuous hold on place.
The one that got away.