If you have never rolled in a carpet of fireflies
held one in your palm as it signals life with it’s glowing end
as the noisy city fades from memory, how do you know you are home?
If the orchestra of generators on each side of the sandy street don’t
herald your welcome like a bride down a dark aisle
as you feel your way familiarly through ridge, rock and erosion,
If the same man doesn’t sell both cocaine and candy—
masking his mischief with the biggest smiles on any given day
and everyone’s knows,
or the 5am preacher screaming salvation in the dead of morning
his message swallowed in the static of a broken megaphone
a baby crying
a dog barking
both happening in crescendo
The smell of chemicals from the old factory
If sand isn’t stuck between your toes from the streets you skipped
for hours delightfully losing daylight,
how do you know?
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