Red plastic beneath my thighs
Brick against my back
I'm thinking about home.

A chilly New York pool
to Oregon's straw meadows
to cicada wings
sounding loudly this Oklahoma night.

Home has never been a place.

a piece of glitter stuck to my cheek
coffee steam in a crowded lecture hall
tipsy strolling past street lights
a splotched paint palette.

Moments that piece together
in a fashion that transitions
with the moon.

My gaze is set
on a dim crossroad
And I wonder where I'll bring
Home next