Home is where the heart is
and my heart is our traveling.
Up into the wild blue yonder, wingless,
prayerful that this miracle of flight
will not end, just yet.
Also at home, with you,on the ground,
wherever you might be at the moment,
grounded like a highschooler,
like a wire, a bird and a wire,
feet on the ground and my heart
in my throat now, now in my feet,
lawfully, descending with gravity to the lower,
lowest, most sought after most beautifully bound, home.
Aspirations involve reparations.
We reach for the stars wondering what we are.
But my reason has been found by finding you
and looking down.
And it's there, not in the stars of fantasized worlds,
fifth dimensions, sixth senses,
holy parallel potentates of potentialities
 that my feet will trace their slow as history
itself dancea walking calligraphy so subtle
that it will take fourthy years and more
and view from above with an impresional remove
and lofty attachment I hope to barely fall
at that mythical two-backed beast; itinerant statist;
like the one I enoy up here in the well attended air,
to read the cursive strokes of my aggregate footsteps,
like some fairly tale dissolve, "Once upon a time",
or twice written on your home may be,
will be,
wherever we happen
to be...
 
 

                                                                                                                        as printed in Moveline, July 1988.