Light years from where I was,
it’s time to go home.
(Not curl into a ball, evaporate
and fall, rain against windows
with an alien view.)
And time to admit that roads are often
blind turns into heavy traffic.
The grid can swallow us, spit us out
sand on sidewalk where industrious ants
have constructed their anti-views.
Time to admit a chair, sunset, the perspective
through maples defines enough
and spectacular vistas into the self
are unnecessary, unwanted and impossible.