in the forest wind rustle that day, we found an abandoned freight car

you called home, by instinct recalling-

rivers, tobacco scent, rusted broken latches, abandoned instruments and dreams

you just had. you remember the smell of paper also

in your father’s publishing house

where you first pressed skin on skin

and wrote the word love on one another’s bones in another language

with some amazing woman you can’t recall back then

until traveling by train in europe.

you suddenly want to tattoo the whole

sequence on your body. and you know, somehow

she was the church, and that you are a kinesthetic historian

with a desire for a home which never stops moving…

and pressing into you.