Returned

These nights, these dreams
Pull poetry
Kicking and screaming
From some instinctual,
Guttural place inside of me
Wherein I must hide
All the wonder and dread
Once interpreting the world
Spread out before my eyes
Of flesh.

I treat it as a child’s toy,
Faded, torn, missing pieces,
Carried past the age of reason
A thumb in the mouth,
Plumbing the depths,
And four fingers cemented around
Some leg of its being.
If I leave it wherever I go,
I come home to find it
Laying just so in my bed.

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