This old land
this is
the jetstream that bites
a
forgotten pull that cuts through sound
approaching
via the window of a plane
is not the
same as going back
home is abstraction,
it’s no place, a nausea
vibrates
the muscles, talks in code
raised
hairs, whispers against strained neurons
inarticulate,
hungry
moves back
to photographs
creates
stories over wine, in the car, when no one
is
listening, as interior voice, safe in obscurity
poetry no one is reading
breaks into
a thousand dust motes
the eyes
sting from the colours – refracted turquoise
watercolour
green, a prayer to God the Vacant
stuttered
out like the confession of bad dreams
in spite
of the polygram that compels me
beeps as I
walk through, taking off my jewels
a necklace
of words and lies, desire the taste
of exile, returning to a place I never knew
of exile, returning to a place I never knew
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