Likeness Makes Its Solitary Way Seeking the Lost Whole

never mind about belonging,
                                                            whether it is enough
              to have a place to be, without also wanting to be
                                                                                                     in the right
or truer place, if truer, as an idea, isn’t a lie,
                                                                                if gratitude
              that is partial to some right impression isn’t among
the narrow-minded illusions I keep
                                                                 living by, a homesickness
              that goes hand in hand
                                                           with withholding, what? Wonder,
perhaps, or exuberance, or even fulfillment,
                                                                                because it requires so little
              effort to be heartsick at the very thought of moving
back into the house that destroyed itself just as it revealed itself
              to be a boundary, a threshold, not substantially more.
                                                                                                                 Call it
an echo. Like a sketch of the moon as the moon lies
                                                                                                in silvery forms
              around the front rooms of our living space, the bare
walls a carousel of turning shadows, the house raised
              briefly, seemingly, from its hollowness.
                                                                                     Then the dead
are complaining again about being dead.
                                                                           About forgetfulness
              and all that becomes part of its dark
-sided existence. What is left outside,
                                                                     unsheltered, to rot;
              what is gathered for the fire, good for nothing but the fire,
in the parable of the tares that grow in the sun beside the new wheat
              and pass for wheat
                                                but not for bread.
The clouds opened a thin eye, the moon broke in and turned
              the house to mirrors, and the shadows took their lives
into the back corridors where denial goes to be forgotten
              in this place that is still, surprisingly, not a place
but a recurring thought.
                                            Recall it again. Why the moon’s bewildering
absolute night
                           if not for this wildfire roaring in space, this sun
              among throngs—immensities—of fire.
                                                                                    Why it spins,
why it glints, in this direction.
                                                       Why the stars. Why us.

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