Landing in New York I smelled the breeze
of the jet-way. I inhaled it as home. Home.
The guy at immigration was all Please
and thank you, Where you been–Awesome.
But Hey, you are home, he said, enjoy it.
I prowled for gifts, flew out toward Syracuse,
to a wife whose face once beautiful was ripped
with the agony of my arrival. How are you?
And you, I said. It must be cold. It is she said.
In Ithaca she poured gin, and said her lover’s name,
and how sometimes in the hard white weather dead
love stays dead, how then you have to find the same
thing you killed in another, whose unrepentant heart
follows yours on a mapless trail from finish to start.