home

 

over and over these days

I hear page edges curling in upon themselves

so words fold upon words

until nothing seems the same.

 

maybe this is how we return to words

telling stories of destruction

of ideas

of places

of people

 

nothing means what you though it did

any more

and this “home” equals death

again.

 

the real question is:

what are you going to do about it?

(c) r. l. elke