A Word is Not a Home


A Word is Not a Home

A word is not a home
but we set our tables

between its walls,
cook meals, annoy

friends, abuse ourselves.
Sometimes I misplace

one, and can’t find
my house, much less

the window’s desk
or the chair behind it.

But if I wait, something
always takes form in the fog,

an arm, a ribcage, a feathered
hope struggling to emerge.

Inept, I take comfort
in these apparitions,

accept their offerings,
lose myself in mystery,

find shelter there
in the hollowed curves.

46 thoughts on “A Word is Not a Home

  1. You know I relate all too well to this one. I’m misplacing that damned house constantly!
    But I’m determined to take your embrace of apparitions to heart; for a little too long now, the incompleteness of everything is keeping me from writing down even a line of poetry. That has to change.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. I love the metaphor, Robert. So true. I especially like the first two lines, “A word is not a home, but we set our tables between its walls.” Thank you for sharing. : )

    Liked by 1 person

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