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.



9 thoughts on “A Word is Not a Home

  1. I so love this, Bob! I do set my table between its walls! Funnily, I have a poem coming out this spring which has in it the phrase “the dense foliage of words, long your home”. Is this a recent writing?

    Liked by 3 people

  2. Good poem! Home (to me) is familiar welcoming turf, not necessarily one fixed spot. When I return to certain places, I am instantly “at home” … only one of those being my current mailing address. I have lived in buildings that never felt like home. When traveling, I often experience a sense of “home” nearby calling to me, ready to “take form in the fog” if only I will let it. (Tempting and scary all at the same time!)

    Liked by 3 people

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