I want to make sense of what doesn’t

as if, 

if I let my mind roam

around for a bit,

cling to its collecting of  all the forgotten things

they will matter—

I will make them matter.

I am desperate to make them matter.

As if fragments of mental pictures

depend on me to sort them,

make sense of chaos

and I can’t

always make it work.

And this is the moment

when all falls away,

when I mourn the death of possibility

when we all belonged:

working together to create a home.