Going Home

an arrangement

of trained plucks

& then a full-palmed flood

of contented ones opens

into a siren that isn’t

a siren at all

but i am invited

into dialogue with wordless

hallows, a combination blower

calling for the quiet of me

as it reaches for that hollow place,

finding a grainy fulcrum

salted from a lower

rib of mine, steady

like limestone, crusted to

the thrums’ pleasure: ancient dialect

sung from dunes, all hung up

inside, something like home