year of writing 93b. 3/30

4/3/12

3/30

Quickstep inside
footfalls echoing damply.
These walls drip and breathe;
these floors sink.
Fall with them, it's safe here
in the underneath places
the dark wraps itself unceremoniously
around your shoulders,
against your cheek. It's brusque
but warm; a fathers stubble,
a woolen blanket.
Rest here, this is your home
on days like this, when the light
outside overwhelms, when the
birds are too loud in the forks of trees.
This is your home when you
close your eyes to old Polaroids,
when the edges wont hold.