how is home?

what you dreamed

the first time I came back from East Africa:

The island in the dark. Tiki torches. The gutted plane. The steward? Yes, they call them so? Male flight attendant. The story: you are on an island. There is this much light here. You have a chance now to go home. Yes? You will have to travel into the dark, dark, dark. the storm over the ocean. Are you willing?
Is it safe?
No.
Will I survive?
Maybe.
Would you do it?
No.
(the only way home)
I go. I choose to go. (and today?)

to the heartland

to the heartland
breathing, the body
the city turns to corn
one at a time like teeth
corn turns to sky, flat
your hand perhaps here
the center a river-dug canyon
skin, nerve, spine, sun
falls away and stars
hurtle light to a point
to a pupil, through years
or the moon gives us back our shadow
or the dark we don’t know
not a distance, not quite
a ruin or a name