upon the same mattress that once adorned
your crib and cry
because you want to go home.
Your parents have forgotten
that simplest desire, to return
to what came before,
so no one comforts
you but to say you’re already here.
Meanwhile you know
different, know how you’ve come
from everything and nothing
and now this is a shard-sharp something.
It’s a shock. You tear
with the day along its crisp-creased folds, red
from the sun’s throb between buildings,
where spacetime’s fault lines rub hot,
like the sight behind your eyelids
when you press them shut.
There’s no helping it, you come to pieces, fall
out of place and out of bed. It’s wild
how you only hear
one stream of thought and only see
one view, one bed, one family, one house
that isn’t home.