furthest from home would be the greatest home of all

This is the hoped-for finish 

of all the flights through the dark, 

 

the night drives 

and the sprints with friends

on a dare chasing tracks on the trail,

even the eyes, three years old,

that strained into the hole

where the spider fled;

each one a dream

that furthest from home

would be the greatest home of all,

the most quenching milk

and the softest deep,

as soft as this spot

entwined on the mattress

with work hands hung

over breakable skin,

the arms and knees agreeing to cross

even as hearts pound

a beat apart,

the single door key

catching the moonlight

and what can be laid to rest, 

at rest.

 

[Michael Miller, 'With Her for the First Time, Room 216', from The First Thing Mastered]