Childhood address remembered
all these years. Used now as
a password, a code, a credit card number:

	the place itself a mist 
	of memories, light palpable
	in the smoked filled air

Lawn springing downhill,
steeply impossible to mow,
steps winding up to a green door
as if in a dream.

	garage below where is used to hide
	among small dark thoughts
	hanging from their webs
	barely discerned in the dust
	of time.

That’s where it all began
the endless internal battle,
the wasps’ nest of emotions,
the constant buzzing of the mind’s 
heavy present that always 
“seems to fail this bubble of a heart.”