Curl

No longer at home in the world

and I imagine

never again at home in the world.

Not in cemeteries or bogs

churning with bullfrogs.

Or outside the old pickle shop.

I once made myself

at home on that street,

and the street after that,

and the boulevard. The avenue.

I don’t need to explain it to you.

It seems wrong

to curl now within the confines

of a poem. You can’t hide

from what you made

inside what you made

or so I’m told.