handfuls of air

There is a clear sadness that only

falls into the soul in sunlight,

like rays through a car windshield,

arriving home, alone again,

in perfect weather without you.

I can't go inside yet.

I stalk around the nearby park.

If I have to throw everything away

except what I can cram in this car

so I never have to see this place again,

this lake I circle in shame,

I'll do it.

With weeks, something begins to shift.

Something is finding its center again.

Some object I inhabit

had started to orbit away,

and is now spiraling back.

I have to trust my center.

It has to be a whole home.

Otherwise, it won't have the gravity necessary.

I'll break away again, a rogue planet.

In the past, my center was

a chaos uninhabitable.

Now, I feel the heat to burn

away everything inside

except what is cozy.

I can purify my center.

How could a body do that?

A fragile orgasm?

It doesn't stay long enough.

It collapses in on itself

again and again.

Forget religion; find your own language.

Nature is a flawless chaos.

This life is an extension of nature.

Its chaos is flawless, also.

Loneliness is a purification.

Wait until the flames die

and there is gold in the ashes.