Giant Dandelions

My cottage . . . my gardens . . . my books,

Poor, tipsy, happy Yuanming wrote.

Well alright, just my books. I own

Books, which no bank would want

The bother of repossessing.

All the rest, I rent or borrow.

Even from my books, I borrow.

Really, I don’t own anything,

And least what I own legally.

Ownership’s social permission

Socially enforced—I’ve never

Actually felt in possession

Of anything, not in my bones,

Although I’ve felt as desperate

As a dog gnawing on those bones.

Sitting in this old car I own

(I have the title in a drawer),

I’m very glad I’ve had enough

Forms of permission

To be able to clamber up

To this windy, empty lookout,

To possess these views and this time

Among giant dandelions,

World belonging to no one else.