Original EveryPoem Studio house-voice poem.
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I carry a country that fits in no suitcase, that cannot be folded into neat squares.
We fill a shoebox with useful things: a bus card, two recipes,
The new room echoes when I set down the box. On its side, black marker:
The alarm rings from habit. He reaches, then remembers. No train.
Home is not the address. It's the sound the lock makes when you've been gone too long.
No one becomes family at the signing of a card. It happens slowly:
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