A locale will not
Change with the people
That flow through it
Like filaments
Or fibers that get caught
In its own memories
And linger before
They release themselves
Further.
There is no sieve that fits
Every particle that could
Want passage and so
Some leave behind their
Carcasses to show that
They were there
And never left.
The East Coast accent scares me
And when I hear my flight attendant
I cry for everything I've lost.
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