A place
that only ever was. Where once
there was a table,
& a chair,
& a plate.
A cup—water. Cold.
Bowl of salt. Walls warmed by breath.
When one stood next to the other,

the silhouette on the wall was a bird
pecking the sun. It was graspable
& it was beautiful. Its birdsong—its words—
only a red thread of the many ways
to carry home
& its geographies in a body. How
to trick your birthplace to trace your
footsteps; teach it to answer
you. Carry it like a thorn. Is it unattainable? It was

beautiful. Were I to cling to it
the way tarmac at noon tongues the foot
that hides Cain’s exile between its toes
then sin could be more in how,
less in when
one left home then ate the road
praying forgiveness
& forgetting. A body

is a house on fire. Fire that tastes. Everything
except flesh already burnt. So all there is—is
a man:
back bent, shirt torn.
Feet red,
& brown,
& black. All things. On his body.
Still the home/body keeps burning. Burning.