imagine home

to imagine home, is to see a map,

a shapeless country,

black bordered with chaotic lines

making red and green routes

into cities never heard I’ve

never stepped foot.


home is riding the slow Zephyr train

bound for the sock drawers of a man

with two roots for feet and

an arm over my shoulders

laughing at me, saying

he doesn’t speak crazy

but knows how to love one


home is getting up to leave

as light rises and rains fall,

becoming time and making distance

until you no longer recognize

what absence you’re supposed to be missing

or why it is you feel sick

when you say “my home is far,”

when home never left you,

you left it.