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Leaving Home

Leaving Home

It's a cruelly cold April night in Saratoga. Where the trees fall low
and dip their shivering wings into shadows on my walls, I see myself
sorting the camouflage of my souvenirs beneath the night's tin lamp. I read much
from these; jars of wildflower honey, a cord of silver chain—
shibboleths I wrap in unwashed sheets and bury beneath the bed
as the sky bends, an intractable bridge to lead me away.
The fence’s gates’ blossoming acanthus and iron sticks
keep me in the winding path, as the looking of the stars
mingles with the few airplanes’ strobing beacons.
There’s woodbine honeysuckle holding its chandelier
upside-down in an offering, and the clouds descending make bracelets
around the moonlight striping my wrists.
That night the architecture had changed, as I opened the door,
to see the restaurant’s tables, floors, and shelves were flooded
with tea candles, as a dozen suited men and women in gold gowns
slowly waltzed in the small lights. I thought I was
dreaming of the self-immolating flames in the double doors I passed
on my way outside. I had turned my back
like the strange eyes of sunflowers who turn
waking to the first arches of light, distant and slow in a morning.
From my seat on the bus to the waiting airport, I thought that I looked at the road
and saw the honeysuckles blooming backwards, and closing my eyes,
I knew I would soon fall asleep to the throbbing engines in my ears.