home going
break on the eve
break on even ground
break in two clean splits
in the ghostly silence of the echo
of your mock mute mouth.
break.
listen.
to the wisps of whistling remnants
whittled by withered hands
wandering in the west wind —
coming, coming
the forgotten
the forsaken
the fallen dust
screaming.
Coming home,
passing it,
going.
Can you ever forgive yourself
for forgetting?
For forging the new
a smile
a life
a room
to shut out the forlorn?
It was you after all,
all you,
it was all you —
the dust the rust the fuss,
the blood your heart spat
the air your lungs lugged
through thick trapped tar
pitchers and pints
strawberries, mulberries,
something sweet under the counter
counting down the days
hours and minutes
seconds seconds seconds
seconds to strike at the
exacting point of fear.
and it was you,
who smiled
who breathed
who played
laughing in the rain.
who ate and drank
and prayed by the sill
to a picture of god
too small to fill
the insanity of loneliness
and the cosmic suffering of ordinary existence.
still, the bills come
and still, the bills go
and still, still
you are here.
It was you who stood at the edge
after all,
you who saw cracked cement
and saw the starless night.
It was you who went home
you who left it
and you who cannot find it now.
If you must know, then,
why you are there
and I, here,
it is only because
I am tired
and I am going home.
I will be waiting for you,
all of you,
for when you decide to find me again.
