Who are you
that I
should call you
"home,"
the blank nomenclature
of where we put to bed
all the things
not fit for the forum
of impermanent minds;
who, what
are you
that I should bump into you
in the virtual nothing
of a sidewalk café
and fall all my foggy way
"home"
to painful nudity,
so bare that I should wonder
if I had better call you
"skin"
than love?
