Going Home

Dear friend, do you dream?
Take my hand,

It is a white glove. The kind worn
by faces on a dark stage: the kind
that holds canes and chairs and tall dark hats;
the kind you see with covered faces saying

Yes, why would I?
In this land of all places, why wear

A toothless, sightless grin. A mask
made by the end of life itself; a lifeless
face that speaks of unnatural times and dreadful
places like

Here?
We are nowhere,

then

Let us go somewhere.

A wind-battered, rain-soaked hilltop. A robe
in shreds and torn by spears of water; the uncontrollable
night that like screeching bats
sweep and stare and echoes in your

Soul... so you begin to guess?
move closer, and see

Shapes: one holding the robe to its place
in the rain; its stoicity is
like a pillar the shape of a man
draped in the wind

Itself, what can you tell?
Open your eyes and see

The wind sweeps back and forth and around
the figure, like the grasps of
a drowning man; through the piercing water
the wind flings the cloak open and

You see?
There is nothing, dear friend. It's just

Home.