When we finally stumble
through the wooden door,
push our mud-soaked heels
back into the red dirt,
shed our old selves,
molt like snakes
slithering away from
their paper wrapping,

When we have finally lost ourselves,
left our curtains open on purpose
and emptied the silver
onto the lawn,
not minding the traffic rushing by,
The streets will fall off our maps,
and you will find us.