If displaced, longing, or spent

a gnawing twistiness of home

erupts

with an ugh, tug, a grrrrmph

and out tumbles a wish-

well, a need-

for a spot, covered nook, a nest or wee corner

stocked full of warmth, quiet, books

and visiting songbirds to the window ledge

but

an illusion of safety, the net many speak of

(what, again, is the fabric of that?),

mocks such steady states in a mind

abuzz with too much time

and hunting

for the next place to call one’s own.