it is home, with dust on the doormat.
Where you leave your boots at the end of the day,
more real than the black and white pictures in the hallway
more constant than the veins in your hands:
the way you wring them together while you're falling asleep.
I hear myself say
I am happy. And behind my bright eyes
I shudder at the audacity.
But sometimes I am happy. Why not be?
Why not dance on the graves of expected things
and see what comes of that mis-stepping?
I wish I had more time so I could say more, but I don't, so I'll just say that I love this and that this is me.
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