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  • Fool that you are
    without fail, in spite of everything
    in spite of your better sense

    as soon as you step off the plane
    as soon as you turn the corner
    as soon as you hear the first voice

    you know that if you only parted
    that next billowing of fog

    if you strode up that next thorny lane

    if you spoke with that man who looks just like your father

    you might just find home.
  • But that's ridiculous.
    You can't explain (or tell anyone)

    that you don't mean the home of now -- you have one of those
    but of then -- of sometime other
    when your bones were not these bones, your eyes not these eyes, your veins and skin and organs not these
    not these.

    When you were some other self.
    When this was some other life.
  • And every time you're here
    actually here

    you are not at all sure you want to know
    or find this home
    or this self
    --have them within your grasp

    or still the whispers
    that creep about and call your name.
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