home was an ideal stuck in my head,

a memory desperately avoiding my swopping claws

and razor-sharp beak.

Home is still evasive,

a ghost among dunes of sand and mounds of bone,

something far enough to be blurry but not yet forgotten.

What I always seemed to want –

the nomadic physical life –

to go along with the spiritual nomad inside me,

has vacated me of feeling alive.

I regained my old home

temporarily

with old tricks and

an old way of being –

your soul bounced on me with

such violence and affection and I

exploded

back to life.