We grow up in wildernesses,
such as airport parking garages.
Learn them like your hometown:
how to exit quickly, how to get there
in the middle of the night.
Where to sneak a smoke.
Some people study every concrete inch,
find where the noonday sun falls,
then they claim the light.
Others get lost just six feet from home.
To gain the familiar from the strange
loosens something in the body, allows a stretch.
This is how flowers rise from the sidewalk,
the sun through a day of clouds.
Driving the dark, circular decks of the parking garage,
I fall into a lull. A circle is a home too,
returning us to our beginning.