To Get Back Home Again

once, The Slow Yellow became lit
and curled, silent on skin –
slumberous even
(with all-over brewing – as if in exclamation)

a feeling of nostalgia for a place
that only she could love –
the lost are there, addressed
loosely, fixed upon museum paper

and stuck on stickish thoughts –
the kind that push up and out of their
blue bladed gardens –
growing wings with invisible beginnings

she knows not to call them
for help or solace: they say their time
is not their time
and she sits, eyes wide open

in the crawl space of her mind