The Perfect Place for a Homeland

Autumn. The perfect place for a homeland —
dilapidated, thick, stocky.
The wasteland of a deserted construction site
overgrown with magnificent weeds,
decorated with fainted stair flights to the heaven,
unfinished, unaccomplished like teenage poetry.
Lumps of concrete with rusty gristle of reinforcement rods.
Patrols of big-eyes, nostalgic dogs,
which are stuck between their melting love to the man
and progressing faith in the wolf.
There’s neither politics nor culture here,
only solid primordial AWOL.
Here both angels and chimeras
lose their useless wings.
Here the scraggy baby dragons of yellow maples
are barely pinned to the goosebumped space
with black pins of rooks,
and the wind licks the stamps of sorrow —
empty, damp windows.