On a swivel chair, I look around
the time capsule of my head
flies and devises stories
of memories and images
that pass, I travel
to my birth country
It does not exist, never
it has existed, it is a soup
of ingredients picked life-
long at my feet, cooked
in the pan of my skull
The fresh soup now
from my birth country
tastes different, really
I see it
at the plants and the varieties