Archive
09/25/08
Seven Days
When home is nowhere, Or nothing more than an open door to "out in the cold," Then coming home does little to restore order,
Indeed, makes going away, For an extended stay, not all that daunting, Rather just a casual jaunt to Mongolia or the moon,
The Arctic or the heart of darkness — Somewhere beyond wherever that far bourn called death Offers the weary peregrine lodging, for the night.
This morning, after being away seven days, I awakened in a home built on a precipice of bones, All of which appeared to be my own.
09/25/08
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