It is my heart and I would think
I know its avenues and alley
but I look inward and I am lost
as a tourist is lost in a new city -
or an excursionist long, gone
traveling far, wide, over seas,
upon the turn of knob and key
returns to a home no longer his
but is occupied by another
whose legs drape on the armrest
of his chair like a limp cloth.
A bird has made inside me its nest.