I have pushed
      solid staccatos
from my mouth
                out the window
down     onto
                  pixelated Midwestern sidewalks
dressed up in birds
             challenged by arcade chemicals
that demanded
            more self-possession
                            than I came here
                                 grafted-to
look really close
He’s holding a postcard,
              reads: Towel warmed on oven door to not-freeze.

I homecome more complicated.
This will take time.*

*Originally published in Traces of a Fifth Column, Inlandia Books, 2017.