We look for coincidence in our need for understanding
So we have scattered you under the genus that flowers yellow
It matches the picture you coloured with your favourite childhood crayon
Growing in prolific ramshackle habits
The way you could never stay within the lines
The yellow is brilliant
The wind whispers the way you always tried to whistle
i want a word for the almost-home.
that point where the highway’s monotony becomes familiar
that subway stop whose name will always wake you from day’s-end dozing
that first glimpse of the skyline
that you never loved until you left it behind.
what do you call the exit sign you see even in your dreams?
is there a name for the airport terminal you come back to,
i need a word for rounding your corner onto your street,
for seeing your city on the horizon,
for flying homewards down your highway.
give me a word for the boundary
between the world you went to see
and the small one you call your own.
i want a word for the moment you know
you’re almost home.
We rub our hands against the dusk.
Out of which sunsets blossom.
Out of which your footsteps weigh, but lightly,
on my soul, you, from whom relation
darts wildly about like a bat in the rafters,
gathering the last scraps of daylight held in
abandoned mirrors, you, hoisting the heaviness
of each failed dream, for it is you I touch as we shift
the burden of our desires from one shoulder to another,
as we watch the swallow’s flight decipher the landscape,
as the scarecrows of feeling are trying on our words,
for who can say, now, how many stars are missing?"
I am locked in the wrong house."