coming home to you

I've slept
in fits and shaking falls
fighting the pull to give
in, or up, or over
to whatever lies on the
the other
side--

[of the bed

is yours
and always kept, only
for you]

--under so many
even little
as to puzzle out
how does Santa come to us
if there's no chimney?

36 years &
somewhere near 30
`homes`
were never any more than
temporary relief from
out there, amongst those
illusions of choice

is that all this is
deterministic contingencies
ifs&thens ad infinitum
a clear enough day, with conditions
favorable
able to see forward and behind
the beginning and end
already played out
predestined

so, then
how does this-

if i can
can i
grow
and persevere and be
patient

and avoid the inevitable if--then of the
relentless neversettled churning
it's too much
it exhausts
it wears down

the space beyond these
walls
does enough toward
that end

all I ever wanted
was
coming home to you