Hierophany

Home, going back home.  To
Where my parents live, still
Live, on the other side of my old
Room.  It’s filled with treasures
Of forgotten days, the
Treasures now forgotten themselves,
Sunk to the murky floor of my life’s ocean
Along with pencil-hearted notes
And the odd extra-base hit I managed.
I go home, look around.  I always
Expect to find something.
A twenty stashed away in a spare copy of
Walden, a perc cracked in half and left to rest
In a piece of bad pottery from high school ceramics.
I open a closet so quiet and cold,
So grateful to see me—to see anyone.
I read again through old writings
And I try to believe I’ve found something
I can use.  I tell myself I’m in those pages,
I’m somewhere around here.  Playing hot/cold
With the past I get warm, warmer, waaarrmmerrr,
I’m burning up!—I find myself
Balled to a crisp in the sock drawer,
Where I’ve always been hiding, mixed in with the
Mexican coins and a dead man’s cufflinks.

This entry posted by J Rand : 14:46