WHERE THE HEART IS

on the way home in a boeing DC-17,
working on a chunk of peanut shell stuck in my upper teeth, i'm streaking across
a magnetic magenta sky at a speed unnatural for
humans to travel and the sun is setting over waves of puffy clouds
rolling off across the horizon.

six hours post-grandmother's funeral and i'm still a bit shaky from
the recent sensation of holding her warm veiny hands go cold,
nearly instantaneously;

i thought a faint pulse lingered on but i was wrong.

although i knew it would happen, it still shocked me,
the intense ice of it all, anyway.

i sit locked in for departure although the sign says that it's safe to roam and
i've really accomplished something great,
i've retained the scent of the red and yellow tulips outside of her apartment.

somehow, in my ears, church bells from around the corner play on still.

here i am
nearly a mile above appalachia, edging my way back home and

this is where it happens, while i'm siting next to an anonymous dreamer in a suit
with black thin business socks.

piercing clouds like needle and thread through a cotton sheet i
pass by the moon and the myths and i'm enveloped in a somber sadness
not knowing why or what this feeling is,
or means,
and not really trying to.

i come to one conclusion:

i do know that i didn't mean to leave you calm and quiet, riding your motorcycle out west in a light evening rain across an abandoned desert highway,
pavement cold and endless,

lizards scurrying in the sand,

early morning dew on needles,

blinded with tears in your jade eyes.