It’s a sad yellow feeling
like walking into someone else’s childhood.
A flickering
inside a vast, black egg:
it’s time to go.
The little shops pass
wall-less and candlelit
by night
and she (who greets you at the door)
her mouth
makes a warm cave.
The table’s set
for dinner, dear. Yes.
No one
will unravel this (your home address) again.