Coming Home
Doug Bolling

So much of this is the war.
Your return after as one
stepping through an ever
receding mirror.

Will we again become lovers.
Will we undress our thoughts
and offer them in the
purest of
transparency.

You saying:

The ground shifts
and breaks apart
under my feet.

Even the high slopes
where once we built
figures of snow
and called them
songs.

Now the bloodied faces
and limbs. They carry me
everywhere as though

I’ve never returned,
only the flesh of me
or a talking head
squinting hard
to find an
open door.