Heima

All is accessory.
A vibrant energy enfolds me when I look upon what cannot be resituated,
And in this place, I cannot separate myself --
My body
My clothes my glasses my hand--
From it
Like smoke and exhalation intermingled.

There is a music of home and it
Is a music of the fullnes of isolation
Just like there is a taste of the home
That comes from the kitchen and the frying pan of the home.

The beauty of home is the beauty of the sacredness of stuff,
The sacredness of things
Both dust and what we put in shrines.

Home is a dizzying place of endless inner adventure
With no fear but a subtle, pleasant suffocation
Where every thing is also an idea.