Next year this time
I will load my things
Into as few vessels
As I can manage—
My carpet bag…too much?

Next year this time
I will leave this South
And toss and turn and heave
Across the ocean—
Stopping once to refuel?

I will step out
Upon the Cape
Into the other
New South—
Out of season.
Turned upsidedown.
An eager doll
With blinking eyes
And a heartbeat you can hear.
Watching for clues,
Reaching out.
On the flip side
Of this breakable,
Shakeable
Globe.

Next year this time
My hemispheres and
my flotsams will turn back
Into place, upright—
Will I settle back too?

You are here. But you could be here or here. I mean, if you aren't too busy.