Playing with form:

Home

O
we
can
spin
upon
string,
ellipse
planets
in space
about sun
but what is
home to us?
What is need
for our seed to
dream of return?
Tiny dancer spins
blue an' green bead,
it may be ripe garden
but is it home? Breath
held within this pressure
swirls lacy clouds around,
wind o’er water and ground.
Can we make this earth move
for us? Am I home if fire spills
down my thighs? Tiny spinning
blue-green bead, jade and lazuli
desires reach for new beginning
through never-ending, inky sky.
Home is where our naked wet
pounding hearts lie, outside
our bodies, where Milky
Way pours its light

in afterglow.