first nightwalk

crossing the bridge
over the Rocky River
home is not an idea any longer
it is a place, with chairs
a lamp, a bed, a kitchen table
and little else
a spontaneous puja
that accumulates trinkets
as I unpack
finally, home is a form
I pranam to

the sun is setting
the sky is cloud-laden
grey, grave and gauze
with blue and red spiking through

this is a clusterfuck of wonder
an upturned catastrophe
whose rear end wags at the coming stars
a new depression averted
gladness, as sincere as it is actual
tasted, devoured, relished