There we were promised a great, great life
   and it waited, though we weren't yet born.
There at the window, returned from having lived,
   from the other end of the world, tiny people
falling into shape, each speaking a different tongue,
   each almost growing familiar, caught in the glass,
but
         I was afraid to stay, drew the curtains,
   pretended it was long ago when we were all
at ease with each other, knowing who we were,
   even if under it all we were slaves to habit
with our best clothes on,
                                until the yellow flower
   filtered through the curtains, staining my face,
so I remembered some of the names of this place
   where I had grown accustomed to swampy streams
and abandoned houses where dogs barked
   as if they still lived there,