This was published in The Brown Boat, a Raedleaf Journal:





Homes have no walls

no rooms, no furn

iture, no thresholds 

Nothing through which you might enter 

and nothing from which you might want to exit

Because homes are not houses

Homes are built in the eyes 

Erected by naked, hungry hearts

In skies, in dew drops, lichen, mosses, 

Sometimes on parched, parted lips

Sometimes inside the darkening irises of your eyes

Homes are tender assembles of empty air 

Sorted by the linear breaths you lend to me;

Built for unborn little feet to run

And for smiles to sun themselves on broad porticos

My home is in the centre of your palms

Sunk in the wells of your destiny

That you carry like a liquid in your eyes

Or like an abode in your hand, my very own delta 

Between the nine mounds of the universe