Romantic Self Pity

How far I’ve left a home behind,
Long lived without it, wandering
Through the streets and the fields,
Either in a sun’s blindness
Or the lamps and the glow of signs
Beckoning “Enter! Enter!” to bars
And the sop of bitterns fuming
Disorientation, while dancers disclosed
Live flesh and revealed their shame.

There are men I have seen like a dance on the river
Swimming upstream in patterns and schools,
But so far I have felt as if only I looked
And refused the cold plunge, alone;

My reeling incomprehension twinkles
Through obscurity, when it is cold,
Also before the dawn’s darkness
Deaf and dumb. So I call out again for a song,
To speak with myself but not to be overheard
Or perhaps not to hear -- or to cut the rough timber
That it will require, to set to the work, to forge
The cardinals and the keys and nail down the floors:

For a home is the only foundation, and homes
Are never empty: the gods dwell there,
Greet the moment that you enter and cry good-by
Like canaries when on the way out you shut your door;
All the corners are carved from significance,
And the windows’ assurance keeps shadows at bay.

But I am over-incarnate of shadows, so never will settle
On slate of planes or plateaus resting firm
In the earth’s raw crotch anymore
Than a cloud can come in from the storm.