Tuesday, July 29, 2014

Exile


My wife sleeps in our parents' spare rooms,
Her work's bloodless compulsions bar her from our children.
Bilingual strangers swarm our home,
Destroying, laughing,
Cursing, building.

Here in the mountains, small, pajama'd gods, Norse, momentarily coexist,
Spawning and coercing a paper world, a fantasy's shadow, and more real.