You don’t take me home.
I’m laying next to you
feeling the warmth you try to exhume
And I swear,
right here, I gave it this:
The child who stares at the water
(A Bronte in the making)
and splashed toes and
he was one of those
who kissed my hand, my forehead
the bridge in between my eyes
The sand in between my toes
( Its comforter never reaches to cover them)
The leafiness, the vacant upwards
A deep blue taking upon a scarlet amber:
The stories the sun sends from the glory of its mouth
I ( ) him … them…
^a thrift store to the air gods
But you, Music, changes the sheets of this bed.
It doesn’t take me home.
Latterly constructing a novelty with
bricks of minute bracked crystals and
A teepee of the clouds that wade in the vacancy
A structure of air laced library books
and I’m alone.
and no one knows.
Yet you lie next to me offering
the warmth of as is if you wish to walk me home
from a late date
Leaving a kiss on my forehead
You don’t take me home
It is home.
And you cuddle me up
in this burring heat
Hoping that I see:
With you, alone and away
alone. and. away.