Abstract
Over the last hill. Curve round, down the other side. A field, a store, the river. The clench in the belly, the long last mile. You pull in under where the pines arch over. Home. It's bare ground January, the mudslick melting heel thick. This time you leave the boots outside the door and come soft-footed for the hardwood floor warped now, and dirt-darker. You peel off layers as you take off clothes. Unwrapped, you'll come unguarded heart exposed, arms out, open and bone tender til you hesitate, then close. It's ritual and possibility, cellar stairs and attic memories, creaks and cobwebs. You come back homing to the only place where frames display the aging of your face: here, where the dust has settled in your bones and the halls limn your hollows. This is it, the one place. Here alone, over and over. Over and over, back and back
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