Home

Home

Your hat all hung
a drop of laudanum,
a tendril dangling on the brink
of a shallow glass:

sight budding,
open me up how I want to see.

The narrative calls itself home.

Home,
the house that gave birth
to coevals: stories securely boxed up
inside its humming walls;
we leave her when what is unwritten
seems to hang on the wind
ringing chimes outside the window--

bells that resound always home.

Home,
separated bodies of water
the growth of vegetation
pulled from warm soil.
This verdant earth is ours
it’s worth dying for, but we can’t just stay here.

Home,
That standing on the water’s edge, we look on at the far reaches of our
letters
our tiny prayers adrift like a gas above
home.

That home is the distance between us and our occurrence.