Saturday, March 12, 2016

we carry the anchor in the left breast pocket of our denim shirts

no one can make you be at home.
home is not real estate;
not a prescription for the future;
not a commodity of the now.

once it was late afternoon -
you grew hazy in the sunlight
which passed over the couch 
you lay on like a sailing page.

there were crumbs on your shirt
which moored you to your body.
your mind drifted not bothering 
to know anything about direction.

you were on a scow in the middle of the ocean,
everything pale whites and soft blue hues,
even the shrieks of the seagulls comforting,
drifting along dumbly, at home in your interminable seascape.