Not Being at Home
These wild, wild things we’re told.
Old frustrations of various dawns,
A few dreams.
Celan, writing Todesfugue, spent hours,
Days, composing his own torment.
These bamboo shoots, these nails.
A man told me once he’d been looking
For the same set of keys almost ten years.
Treasure? I guessed, a safety deposit box?
My house, he said. I can only go in
Through the window.