I do not know what it is in me that would want to bunker down
nine hundred years to my two
and would have me speak
with the throat of a bird
or the throat of a reed by the side of a lake
with nowhere to go.
That would have me exchange
my blue and white bedroom for feathers
cups of gold for handfuls of sand
love, for thunder and brine.
Except this. I toy with banishment
a second time and a third
but my heart isn’t in it.
I already know that
if I have been required to fly
over the history of my house
and see only nettles and scutch
where my children’s home should be
then I will also be woken by bells
with their eight o’clock definite truth
so I may walk in the room of my own breath
and say we will leave it at that.