Packing

How is it that all
the bits of here
are so hard to gather
when I want to go there?
What shadow of home
can I fold
to reappear
with familiar lines
in a strange city
full of its own darkness?
Hard angles and noise
at all hours
await my still veins.
I'll take my own thin spoon
to lift foreign soup,
magically delivered,
my spoon
to coax my lips
open
for whatever
feeding I find possible.
I'll take my own brushes
to lay color down
as it appears flashing
in my challenged eyes,
searching for some brightness
to rival the poppies
I leave half exploded
in blooming flames
near the thin blue iris
and tight-budded peonies.
I need to see past the brink
of clematis glowing
in the moonlight
and travel to the sounds
of gulls and rocks,
bridges and boats.
I need to find paints
for matching what I'll find
after the city,
when dawn
first touches land
and night still snores
here by the rivers.
I must carry that
in my bag
for later.