The place hasn’t changed. Things are in their place.
Things remain exactly what they were: just things.
Home comforts are what we expect of home.
Sunlight hovers on walls, remaining sunlight
even when spread on pavements. Our keel is more or less even.
Our clothes are comfortable simply because they’re our clothes.
Back to front, front to back we go, until we’re back
at the front. We try to preserve a united front.
Here is where we are: our place is always here.
The softness of the place, the pressing into grass.
The warmth when it arrives as a kind of grace.
The soft bricks, the earth that crumbles. Rain
that gentles and does not precipitate ruin.
Temperate climes. Our fingers on the pulse
of dinner and bed, the night fumbling for pills.
The poor will get poorer, the rich richer. The wind
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