The room
is the slate grey of early morning and
both you and your brother have found
yourselves in our bed.
Our legs and arms, a quilt, or
at least the makings of one
I’m not sure I’m ready to talk about when we finish it.
You notice I’m awake and whisper in my ear that you’re not sure you like
what’s happening outside.
The recent storms have taken some trees and you suggest that my cutting them
down is quitting on them.
“What if they come back?
What if they don’t fall?
Not everything that’s crooked is wrong?”
I take a big wakeful breath of your hair
Before I squeeze you tight.
To whatever means to whatever ends, to this world we owe,
What I know, of knowing anything, is that
this is home.