I feel myself being peeled from this picture
of walls and walls to each horizon and machines
whose bullhorn mouths spout endless propaganda
and a swastika scratched in the footpath.
The crows calling from windows, “marked apart,”
wait for you to fall so they can feast.
The wave in their wake wipes out
the warmth of that last smile. And my feet
begin to slip and scuff and my neck
begins to stretch and the stars
begin to blur and the blackbirds
are singing in Humboldthain.
Drifting home, three-quarters asleep,
I am welcomed by the sound of Humboldthain
in those chilled crystalline nights of early Spring,
but it’s broken by the cars and one suspicious dog;
the shards stick in my neck and once again,
this ghost-town street becomes a tourniquet.
But the sound comes back – three blackbirds
and their one perfect love song, taking me back
to drifting home, three-quarters asleep,
gliding with eyes as heavy as my bones
until the song that echoes from the shadows
of awakening branches and buried scars
throws starlight in my face,
awakens feathers in my heart.
It takes me back, as it took me back,
as I must go back, but not this time:
this time, I fall through a door
so bored it knocks itself, and listen
to the fridge as it tries to sing along.
Yesterday was the first real punch-in-the-heart homesickness. It’s a real relief to have these electric internets to keep the channels open, though. And to have friends to remind me that it really isn’t that far away, and that no problem is really all that huge. This is like a friendly version of the Total Perspective Vortex.