Never End a Poem with Home

Without permission,
her pilot light
blue eyes lock
onto a boldly painted
arrow on a sign.

It points left
to a back room
she knows well but
not from this angle. It’s not
a secret to be

uncurled. Another sign
in another place
on another street points
left too. Blocking
the only revolving

door in sight, it says in chalk:
“Use Revolving Door.”
This is how messages
come undone without being
erased. It takes 12 years

to put Adam back together
from shattered marble

fragments. Blue

weakens to yellow.
An 85-year-old
woman gets raped
in her apartment. The weakest

flame is a murmur
that signals some
of us home.

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