The heart is a strange room,
smaller, abstract, a shoebox.
He’s been waiting and 
the place smells of him,
his country, for a time,
the orange and yellow flowers in the blue room,
the mirror where he saw her look at herself
while they made love,
the small picture on the wall.
But now the books of poetry
pile on the desk, lean into the
plaster like history. The flowers,
flaccid and hunched. And past them,
outside the window, a train again,
crossing the space between,
not yet home.