Truth be told, today’s poem is a sort of retake on an older idea of mine. Some of the stuff that makes me think of home…
All the stray dogs barking in the moonlight,
their voices those of prophets from hell,
their language distinguishable only
to those who fold their bodies neatly
and leave them behind when they go.
All the stray cars growling lustily
in the heat of the race, trained to reach
after their own tails, trained to stay always
awake and ready to spread the dust.
The stray girls, invisible, inaudible,
except when they show themselves tame,
except when they let their legs do the talking.
And, yes, even the occasional stray cat,
meowing with the stray wind,
growing furry wings and flying
halfway round the Globe by morning.
All of this is home, but since it cannot
be contained, since it cannot be bottled away,
since it is a myriapod that runs and runs,
it must be chased to the end of the world.