You Come Home
On the back porch looking
at the beginning of all
of the trees, the stark opening,
our man-made forest,
our backyard and all
of our neighbors’;
-
at the glass table watching
the nighttime, the shadow
of dark matter shielding
bright fire from galaxies
too far away;
-
on my knees which are biting
the floor, on my hands, now,
the cold of my stomach just
finding that point of such horrible
rapture,
-
headlights devour
our blank wall of nature,
the beginning, fire seeping
through spaces in trunks,
through thinly veined leaves
through the wild, broken turkeys
the fields of sharp cotton—
-
you are home, you are home.
