I am always leaving,
coming or going,
wishing or regretting.
I was once there.
I could be in that place.
The question of here
rests below my line of sight.
Once, for several years,
I unpacked little when I moved.
I lived out of cardboard boxes and milk crates,
rearranging and discarding and repacking their contents
in an endless circle.
I was coming and going
and never where I was.
I couldn't carry it all into another house.
It had become heavy and ugly,
so I dumped everything I owned into garbage bags,
carried it out to the bin for the pickers,
and moved all my furniture empty.
I felt clean and free,
but I was coming and going as ever
without possessions to pin me home.
I took to sleeping wherever I ended my day
and hoping no one could see
how sick my heart was
with nowhere to be.
I kept hearing this metaphor then
about the merits of flowing with the current,
but I longed to be the stone
still against the water,
too heavy to be here or there.
That stone would feel the cool water
without a thought,
and it would know where it was
every day of its life.