I’ve loved enough to fill enough pages
of my passport to all the foreign countries
I wanted to see, enough stamps enough
ink enough.  Something won’t close
its mouth, some bandaid ripped off
the tender spot fourteen hundred times
fourteen hundred thousand times and that
is enough times.  I want it to be enough

I say, standing as I am under fields of stars,
above the bones of everyone before
that have melted, dissolved, passed from form
to form.  What happens after I refuse the con
servation of matter is my conservation,
another form, country, which is enough.