This Patched Town, This Home
by John Graves Morris


Wherever the heart moves is home.
No matter how blank the blank check,
nothing can ever bid it come.

No matter how bleak the highway drone
near whatever dark spot, what dreck,
wherever the heart moves is home.

Look not only for trappings, the cone
without the cream, head without neck;
nothing can ever bid grace come.

Pay heed to warning signs, that lone
starved cat, scorched field, whole to fleck;
wherever the heart moves is home.

No matter how bright the sun shone
favor once on childhood’s bright deck,
nothing can ever bid hearth come

or stay; this town, its patched beauty,
has grafted on my skin, charred wreck.
Wherever the heart moves is home.
Nothing can ever bid it come.






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