home waters

within hours, what holds a person’s attention
whistles away, slick water through an oiled sieve.
a man comes again to some sense, thinks,
ah! i had forgotten.  and then, forgets again.
the texture of toast or the rind of a lemon,
lace curtains flapping, tuna casserole —
some safety mechanism within the brain,
a gnarled gland or twist of axons,
moves us downstream from these moorings,
wise enough to know it cannot keep
even a tenth of what comes.  and what comes?
hurricanes.  inundations.  a drowning.
impressions loaded with merciless meaning,
layer after layer of sensory data, thundering.
one man thinks of this tonight,
shutting off the lamps, feeling his house
stretch into the dark, become universal.
rooms assert themselves again,
not bound by pools of light.
the man stretches too.  listening.  alert.
remembering in a flash of archetypes
how houses began, some quick
race consciousness that includes
ancestral caves, shared fire, his childhood house
and every home from that to this.
and then it drains away,
a curl of coiling foam
like toothpaste down a glistening sink.


2 thoughts on “home waters

  1. thanks, friend. haven’t written much lately — working on that. i feel like the words whistle away from me as soon as i think of them.

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