last night i dreamt that somebody:

booked me a ferry to Guernsey
booked my flight to the port
and took my hand so i couldn’t write. i asked
for it back. but i couldn’t come back to

one of the few cities with an ‘o’
at the end. most share this
‘ah’. not i

and the tracks allow for reverse
but to drive without purpose-
that’s what i need

all the weak tea starts. blessed days
to want windows to watch out of
not spattered with water
or wind-blown out of
recognition

when the poet enters the poem
home is not where the heart is suspected to
be, but an ant on the tree

it nests in me