Where will you go home?
These mountains cannot
receive you, and there is
no cave or grave to be dug
for you in your old hills.

And still a current of air
keeps singing home . . . home 
as if that meant something
you could go to, as if something
could finally stand still.

Turn then, and keep turning.
Faster, like a drill
through your old God’s promises,
like a potter’s wheel,
like a spindle, twisting

your tears into salt crystals,
into the face of this
wrecked land, into the distant,
perfect stars, which will not
take you up, but hold to you

like mirrors, flashing their
salty glare with each
minute, with each
magnificent
revolution.