So that nowhere home is

Still ever on the way.

 

Low points marked by little orange signs Saying Flooded before and after they are.

The past of having makes the present
Bleed and then we’re asked to
Forget it like imagined slights

My voice carries further, almost
All the way to the face, I go
But not forth, or I went suspended

I meant to wake up and had or had not
To the lines from an ordinary song
I saw my problem as that line

I have to tell my mother the night

is a house in which are no knives.
The heavens grow hell blue