The heavy door closed behind me,
matted in layers of dripped paint,
cold as the midnight streets,
in blasting orange flood-light.

Where there are ill-kept gardens,
dusty yards and aging cars,
thick in moss and neglect,
peeling away into the past,
my breath gives me away.

Beneath my mind and above my shadow,
my legs fail me once or twice,
as I stagger homeward,
lost in thoughts that never relent.
Nowhere close to the fire.

First frost starts inside,
and works out, forming the winter,
informing the mind,
and minding my business,
I let it crystalize,
hoping later to crack and shatter
whatever may form.

I'm never lost in this city,
but it's always lost on me.

And I still wait to be home.