While I was sleeping last night,
seven billion homeless wanderers
came to my door (I know you
were one of them) wanting a mug
of yesterday's coffee and some
toll house cookies my grandmother
taught me how to bake.
This is why I keep my heart ajar
all through the night, a sliver of me
unlocked to hear the shuffling socks
of humanity come down the hallway
of my breathing (I know you took off
your shoes when you came in) to rest
a little while in my kitchen by the candle's
flickering pool of loneliness
where at last we all gather again,
vacantly staring through wider rings
of embryonic darkness, not yet
shaped by uncertainty into ourselves.
I need not say to you who wander
uninvited here, "Welcome, rest, eat.”
One night may I find such leftovers
warmed up and ready for me
in the small but generous kitchen
of your own broken heart
(have you baked them yet?),
because I know our sleeplessness
out-spirals the stars, wending
the circumference of a hug
( I in you, you in me) to arrive
beyond darkness, where death
comes home to breathe.
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