Poem 23

for my roommate on an abroad trip

When it meant something to have an ivy covered house, Home
Might become a less-than-kept vintage handkerchief…
And now? What could home mean to the wandering inquiries of
An expiring circumstance—someone decide, splendid
The surface of circumferences incalculable—spheres of fortune
Promise these frozen fallow fields flowers by spring, but
Confetti currency looks too much like tarot cards to trust, fluttering from fingers and
The mocking burd says sing. Oh. These reed voices NO but one note
Droning on until the climax seems both immanent and impossible,
Holly Farm is a drive by glance through the rear view mirror;
Holly Farm is at once all night terrors and rose colored
youth—racing reminiscence—Do you remember?(what I said)
of my dear friend, collecting Polaroid justification
in crooked cobblestone margins where it means something
to have an ivy covered house:
                                                Home is a moving target.


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