home, reconstruct the
furniture of our lives,
unfurling once more
the portable hearth of
a life nomadic.
A few years ago, I moved house for the thirteenth time. I was
twenty-three years old. Physically, what I left behind that day were the bones
of a stripped down, empty bedroom. By this point: just four pale blue walls,
dancing balls of dust and debris that had collected in buried corners, a bare
space of polished floorboards, and a blankly gazing window unveiled of its
curtains.
