#3

Questions

Days come undone in the arms of people who show up
and breath becomes ink — dark, warm, opaque, stained —
sticks to the insides of my chest unable to flow

If my breath slows down, can I do so, too? 

Home, always home, takes me in like a cat after it has
been in the rain, soaking from a sorrow that I walked into
knowingly, holding my loneliness in my little paw

If my body needs warmth, can I want it, too? 

Gypsies arrive to tell stories about faraway inventions
that I readily believe — shiny, fawning, promising —
of a life unburdened by the travails of our days

If my heart seeks refuge, can I seek it too?