At one
point
Frodo must have looked back
on the Shire
on Bree
on the edge of Hobbitown
and thought “Man,
I am far from home.
I am on the crest of a fucking mountain.”

Home is where the heart is.
We keep the memories of Mary and the lamb,
Mother by the fire as we clung by our mouths to the bottle.

I hear Mr. Romney used to hit people.
His political futurehead would detach
“Don’t Step Over The White Lines!”
and they would fall to the floor
with red rhododendrons on their cheeks.

Soul Vocals are rising up on the tide.
Harlem from the distance is an egg custard.
Its thick shell rises up around a depth of gold
The gold glow of community
Comfortably nestled in the warm night
By thousands of skyscrapers and fortifications.

- Daniel Bromfield