When it didn’t feel like home anymore
he left, slid between the shadows one night,
watched it shrink into the distance.
Waiting until it was small enough
to fit neatly into his hand
he pocketed it, feeling the sharp roof
he’d plucked from the skyline, its rooms full
of unwanted words. Insults clung
to his boots like mud, but he shook more off
with every mile. In the quietness beneath them
he could hear its whisper. As he wandered
he held it to his ear, lips moving
in old conversations. At night,
folded in his threadbare sleeping bag,
he reached out his hand to feel its glow.
When he’d walked far enough
to circle his world, he unpocketed his house,
lined it up with trees on the horizon,
placed it in the silent space,
and went inside.
The complete collection.
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