Coming home is terrible whether the dogs lick your face or not,
or just a wife-shaped loneliness waiting for you.
You think of the vermin clinging to the grass stalks,
roadside assistance and ice creams,
and the peculiar shapes of certain clouds and silences with longing,
because you did not want to return.
And the home-style silence and clouds contribute to nothing but the general malaise.
Clouds, such as they are, are in fact suspect and made from a different material from those you left behind.
You yourself were cut from a different cloudy cloth,
slack in all the wrong spots.
Seamy suit of clothes, dishrag-ratty, worn.
You return home, moon-landed, foreign.
The earth’s gravitation pull, an effort now redoubled,
dragging your shoelaces loose and your shoulders,
etching deeper the stanza of worry on your forehead.
You return home deepened, a parched well linked to tomorrow by a frail stand of... anyway.
You sigh into the onslaught of identical days, one might as well, at a time.
Well anyway, you’re back.
The sun goes up and down like a tired whore,
the weather immobile like a broken limb while you just keep getting older.
Nothing moves, but the shifting tides of salt in your body.
Your vision blears, you carry your weather with you; the big, blue whale; your skeletal darkness.
You come back with x-ray vision,
your eyes have become a hunger.
You come home with your mutant gifts to a house of bone.
romaincrisis
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
2087
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