Home is the no I thought I knew before I’d mistaken it
for water. Its darks parch strangely in my roots.
Its gray sky grieves and is an opium for grieving.
Is a lullaby. Is very soft.
Bankrupts me of my bitter mouths.
Home is the lost veins singing.
Transcript of all time happening at once.
A hex of cold in the vestibule of it.
How low I have been is what it wants.
* * *
There is no home: there is only a future
where the cellos play and men bend their fragile heads
over old emotions. The eye is a journey
where the landscape becomes soft.
Lanterns answering the cities at night:
a great nostalgia. No strange absence
of streets. No dreaming teams of horses
to speak the waltz that never stops, its small boats
tethered by the cold-blooded stars.
The lunatic villages have in the wind’s
small pocket young, electric girls.
The guards in the watchtower sleep.