Your face is a Möbius strip

 

In the beginning

(which is to say, after the end)

I keep the memories in my body,

poured in close to my cells, pond scum on my skin, 

algae in bloom.

After the end, or in the beginning,

I focus on how full I feel,

stockpiled and shored up against the coming drought

when I cannot hear the hum of you

or taste the salt of your body.

I focus on progress, the machinations of daily movements so that 

I keep plodding, easily, into the future

and towards the end, or the next beginning. 

Am I home? Am I lost? I am 

perpetually unsure, drunk on location, dazed

by the multiplicity of homelessness.

Show me a path, phosphorous-lit, with

little bug lanterns along the way,

and I will follow it. 

Let me sink deep in the mud, black with ferment,

let me swim in your brackish swamp, but I need

permission, a path, some placement.

I flirt with the mire and call you home

and wait for my next beginning.