Ghazal For Something Else Or More

Kick up your heels in the desert, let the vastness of distance, the astounding yellow roam,
redefine the sun, the air; see for miles across the swelling, good blue sea, perfectly home.

The tumblers would shine through that blue air, and the grit and the grime would shine 
through the tumblers and every sigh and every chip of paint would, too, be perfectly home.

You’ll find it heaping in the dewy stacks, in pages upon pages 
begging for air, actualization, personhood, to be perfectly home.

And you say we can have faith in each other, that the only pressure is that of our 
own thumbs pressing against our temples when we could, too, be perfectly home.

The rest is the rest is the rest and nothing more, and nothing quite so mindful 
as all that, but the opportunity, everything withstood, to be so perfectly home.

© Avonlea Fotheringham