Two decades before, an urban Arizona sunlight fed the wide face of an advancing flower. I wrote a haibun for the university. Today as I walk past, a fence remains, outside of which, some spindly plants, their yellow unconfined. Synecdoche thus fathers deeper thought and feeling toward inhabitants of the house. My legacy becomes a memory that consistently incarcerates each displaced image. Our comprehensives fastened on the Imagists, conjoined by shared disinclination to emote over removed or otherwise distinctly colored flowers. Like many breathing forms, I never have been young. Despite having rehearsed a sequence of abundant lifetimes.
What separation used to cost, and what it costs today, an archive of displacement