awe catches me at the edge

of the mountain road

—its ragged edges, a mane

around the city.

the volcanoes

it sits on—their tremors

are a lullaby

in the middle of the night.

I wake to cold Andes air,

the crosstalk

of street dogs, and the smoke

of whatever burns outside.

I’ve stowed home, an outsider

now pressed beneath three layers of wool

in someone else’s childhood

bed.

can a stranger be beloved? Only the strike

of the grandfather clock answers,

the whistle

of the guard.