Dear home,

write I,

and stop.

In truth, I have forgotten

how to address you,

old friend.

Shaking a hand half stranger,

half memorized.

I know well enough

not to trip on the threshold

but I run into the table.

I am not in the loop.

I know the old things,

and all I have to do—

Find the new things?

What new things?

Home is nothing new.

Carry a house inside?

No, there isn’t room.

I must unroll a carpet, prop up

a stack of books.

Here I lay my blankets

ripped in two.

I needed one at home,

I say.

No, not this home.

In truth, I have cut

myself in half.

Half memorized to you,

and nothing new to me.

When I do shake

your hand—

remember my smile.

When I do

shake

your hand—

Well.

Maybe I won’t.