I Have Become Home

During the moments I thought about the days
I was listening to them; they were nearby,
because I was so far into them.
I did a dance to them because I had the right thighs
and spine. I made them go inside because they were mine.
Go inside all those who are mine. I have produced such a change.
Do you remember what played on the rainy station?
Once you came home and asked “how long until we’re there?”
I was never obstinate, nor were my hands, because
I had the mechanism of a person familiar with distractions,
and that allowed me to hammer on the bike.
What I would place over them: my hands.
My weight was there to drag wet with corn oil and sand.
A filter reflected only the yellow light, consequently,
your conclusion was stated with that apt tinge.
I felt dizzy enough to absorb the shock of compensation when
I discovered what had been chipped and crushed in the canvas bag.
I jammed with great frequency on the wooden floor—
it was of wood. It was a miracle of one, so I breathed
from my tube with honey spread on the ring of the high part.
It made the examination of the jam most difficult. One time
I aggravated it when I bumped it inadvertently
while trying to listen to you breathe as you slept. The appearance
of the leather strap made it all the more disturbing.
I was drawn to the fleshy parts of you
that had been dilated with sorrow.
A counterbalance got skewed—I understood and I hammered.