The second return is always easier. 
This time I paint my mouth cranberry,
draw my eyes dark and long as a river.
I tear through the tunnels until I realize
I’ve passed myself. My face already lost
to the other side of the city, spilling
into the glowing sleeve of night. Where
it did not belong. What could’ve been true, 
like your last lover, almost gold.
During the new moon, when I miss 
my mother. When it’s more difficult to stay
and I don’t find what I’m looking for.
But people say the wrong things
at all the wrong places. No one knows
where to put their hands or their keys.
I work all week and cry twice a year,
but as the train crosses the quiet forest heart 
of water, I know I can accept my life 
and more. Because it’s never too soon
to leave a party. It’s never too late
to kiss me goodbye. And the marshes blazing
like an angel. Praise the smoke of low light.