what happened to our pantheon?
it fell into disrepair during the night.
you ask me where we should worship.

i resign both eyes inward,
in my flesh-home i am free to be confused,
absolved from the tremors of management.

all sides of you are colliding.

pounding comes at the door.
your door. your face.
in through your lips.
breath upon your lashes
so that your eyes will feel
at home in this humid facsimile of your homeland.

what you want most is a demand for submission.
miracles granted once,
never afterward,
its own debatable occurrence is myth to us for years to come.