No matter where I seem to go, my home
Remains in passing. Je ne peins pas Tetre,
Je peins le passage. True, I mostly prefer
My body calm and comfortable, ensconced
In some machine hurtling over highways,
Rails, waves, or jet streams, but I swim
Sometimes and often sit quietly in a house,
Still in passing. And when I lie on the ground
In a sleep sack, dreaming, or under a hard rain
With fresh broken bones, screaming, I am
At home in passing. This afternoon in a shop
Eating a bowl of noodles and soup alone
While traffic rushed by and I tried recalling
My adoptive brother, dead fifteen years now,
I remained with him in passing. This morning
On the phone to my past, discussing futures,
My voice crossed the air and was recreated
At home, hundreds of miles from me, in passing.
The secret of all nostalgia is that we don’t
Really want to get back home again: we want
To leave home forever yet manage to remain
Ourselves while we refrain from passing.
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