So you're home. Key to the lock, your clutter
and doubt through the door, hang your coat on its claw,

your palm in bloom, your shadow half-opened.
Any wonders under the bed, in the bend

of your knee? Any new or made new or nomads who
make songs into houses? It's humid,

humming in the locust trees, with eleven rings
on the telephone. Lift that crescent to your ear,

hear a dazzling laughter, then a dissonant love,
there's one with a brick house, and one who loves

to break. Where is a calm as is ?
Half asleep, brought in with the breeze,

one world yawning, another burning
somewhere far from your door.

Where is here , or our ? Where rivers
branch in your fist, and your errors

stand by you, don't blame you for
the rigid outlines you unloosed through the door.

Enough. And half , or then ,
another paper clip, a clap of thunder,

book in your lap, feet on a chair,
when some haggard cherub

says you're neither particle nor wave
nor even disquiet tonight — has the weave

of kisses come undone again?
Are you too stubborn again? But then your brain

unbuttons, drifts to the floor, and pure
as an hour you dissolve in the air.