For my brother
I’m back home
where the world is lined
and patterned in crisp ceramic squares,
where neon lights drape “America”
in familiar logos,
and the neighbors hustle quickly
down the sidewalk
with their bags
and bags
and bags.
It’s Christmas Josh
and the limbs of my artificial tree
remain unbent.
I find myself thinking about peace—
peace, peace;
the falling echo into an empty well.
