A world once inhabited and then abandoned
Will always feel smaller on return, and not
Just to children who grew up and came back
As larger-bodied adults. It’s claustrophobic
To re-enter the haunts of memory, especially
If others have since made a more crowded
Home there. The flesh may have contracted
But the soul, that compound being of being
Aware of being, has expanded and no longer
Eases into its old hermit shell. Sometimes
There is nothing more alien than to arrive
Where we started and to know it was never
A start nor a place, and not for the first time.
The stars are remarkably quiet outside.
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