forever, but not always?
i can’t tell if you mean the room
or the way a word unthreads the room —
whether the air thinned by speech
or by the long slow leaving of light.
i don’t know which eyes are lost,
whose mirror you mistook for glass,
only that something keeps returning
and naming itself a home.
maybe it’s a map folded the wrong way,
maybe a door that will not shut;
i am unsure of the furnace or the fault,
but certain the house will stand.
there is mercy in not knowing:
it lets the sound keep moving,
lets the breath find room to bend.
if you must rest where you’ve made your fire,
rest with this — it is allowed.
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