From the Fishouse

Places—
maybe dreams

from which I cannot return: the velvet

touch of Her lips, first light
fingering a cup: sacred dislocations

of mind—the way the right sound
becomes visible.

Where I am now
it’s later—the clocks have been amended

to include all the strange hours—

and Someone cracked my name
as if all my life I’d been locked inside.

I know the shelves stay stocked, big cars lead the chase,
there’s always more and more to eat.

But was that ever my country?

I was. born there.
And I’d go back if I could

just to feel less lonely—
but what I took

to be a certain distance

was actually a late shift in myself,

a different kind of listening:
the voice, a thread of honey—

the jar tipped just enough to one side:

Listen.

We belong to no nation.

One day we will hold the earth
again as if She were a love

nearly lost, Her rainy hair tangled in our hands.

The soul is what we are.
Every life a word the wind turns to say.

And though trouble grows back like a beard,
an unchained blood governs my tongue.

I have seen the door that is not there

still open