seas made of picket signs
mile markers growing
towards the doors
i am aware
of my second home
waving clapboards and
hurried foam
from the faceless woman
i have always heard

the carrier pigeon
has flown away
their cousins bring messages
while i walk through electric doors

i remember the sea foam spray
digging into my cheeks
with black liquid knives
bringing pain and relief

does the ground remember me?
where i stepped and said
"This will be my mark."

There was a field
that pushed grain
where we played until tractors
pushed us home

Am I the only one
that remembers?
The last tree in the road

returning

the old zenith
has cultivated impressive dust
and the floor boards squeak
with the voices of a 1000 years
sleepily asking who's home

How did the walls
become so gray?
after i painted them
so many times
next to a father
with hands like leather
and watery compassionate eyes
quiet until the nights came

i once left a memento
under the stairs
burying it for a future
that was closer to yesterday
than this morning

do you remember
the flat lands where
i imagined a kiss
and a howling dog
scared the grouse
into a kite
stopping briefly
against the wind
waiting until
i could breathe
an ice mist for
my homecoming