Thought to Itself

You are going home, away,
The next time you have to move.
It's not enough, anymore
That you don't stay here. You must
Go home, now, and only home.
The wind around the corner
Eagerly awaits your bones,

And what precious bones they are,
Veal to the wind, softest flesh
To the winter that gnashes
Icicles like incisors
In keen anticipation,
Not real bones at all, not bare,
Not spare, but surplus. Go home.