Bed.

(Acutely aware)
This is a long train journey
Reading about 'Nazi book-burnings'
And solving newspaper puzzles over a lady's shoulder

Quietly

Orange street lamps and cracked pavement
Are the only things that keep us together.

It's all staggered, this journey, as they bring in new stop signs, new moments, new punctuational errors in notices and announcements. The mountain has grown larger during the week I have been absent, and in the night it yawns a blackness to swallow me: promising the shuffling of trees feet in its depths. I do not feel home anymore. I feel displaced. August brings a wind to answer home's question, home wandering haphazardly in and out place: "Where am I? Is anybody there?"

The wind replies, "You're where the beds are free, my dear. Nothing here can hurt you."