on another round of my father's
wine-in-a-box, which i am ashamed to say
ain't too shabby
though that might be explained
in terms of the sheer volume
i've consumed
waiting for your voice on the line to
make sense out of anything i'm
feeling, right now
at home amidst the familiar clutter
of a house filled with things that
are perpetually for sale, creating
an ever-changing home
my father's home, which isn't mine
but could be, if i could just
summon up the courage to close
my eyes and leave you behind
gathering the pieces of the life i own
and flinging them back across
this continent, fleeing again
what i cannot fix
or alter
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