Grace Eyre

there was a warm light
reflecting off wood – it must reflect off wood
there was a warm light coming from the wallsandceilings of a house
the house was sitting in a field
projecting warm light from a distance
it had stairs I loved staircases
it had carpet, a nice cream coloured carpet
thick and

when I ran up the stairs I could feel how it pressed down
even the staircases had this carpet
and that’s how I knew it was a good house
a good warm light house

that warm light was in many places
it was in renovated barns and reception halls and shining down
over the sawdust and sands of rodeo towns
it was everywhere love happened to good people
it was all described in songs I took as given
that warm light was a shared fiction
spinning out lines of an inch deep dream

the women were happy because
they were cared for like a mommy like a daddy
in the songs, in the church
the men were happy because they had good women
and the warm light smelled like leather and potpourri

oh, the warm light lovers loved potpourri
and grinning things made out of cornhusks
all these wallsandceilings made for lovers like this
and people who were cared for

the blueberry lights in urban places
create such an ache
soft and concentric in reflection
infinite promises to the psyche
blueberry lights cause havoc too
an illness of concrete and glass

I don’t know where home is and never did
it’s not just birth and automatic