Ours are homes we never chose
Far from anyone we know
Taps with every faucet on
Lamps that light an empty lawn

So we took what we inherited
And we dug a hole to bury it
All our property and marriages
All we wanted was a narrative

That was ours

Ours are routes that never rest
Carved from countless heavy steps
Stairs with every stringer worn
Wind where they have wound before

So we threw away the atlases
All the heavy ones they handed us
They called us everything but savages
But we found a couple passages

That were ours

So we spoke in lower registers
Than the merchants and the ministers
We were little more than whisperers
But we found a couple listeners

That were ours

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