The place I live in is a kind of maze and I keep seeking the exit or the home.
Home is my Bethlehem, my succoring shelter, my mental hospital, my wife, my dam, my husband, my sir, my womb, my skull.
Poems aren't postcards to send home.
I am not at home in myself. I am my own stranger.
I am tearing the feathers out of the pillows, waiting, waiting for Daddy to come home and stuff me so full of our infected child that I turn invisible, but married, at last.
I leave you, home, when I'm ripped from the doorstep by commerce or fate. Then I submit to the awful subway of the world....
The future is a fog that is still hanging out over the sea, a boat that floats home or does not.