Ours are homes we never chose,
Far from anyone we know.
Taps with every faucet on.
Lamps that light an empty lawn.

So we took what we inherited
And we dug a hole to bury it -
All our property and marriages.
All we wanted was a narrative
That was all ours.

Ours are hours that never rest
Carved from countless heavy steps.
Stairs with every stringer worn.
Wind where they have wound before.

So we threw away the atlases,
All the heavy ones they handed us.
They called us everything but savages,
But we found a couple of passages
That were all ours

So we spoke in lower registers
Than the merchants and the ministers.
We were little more than whisperers
But we found a couple of listeners.
They were all ours.