It's easier to return

It's easier to return. Going away
   I count the telephone poles and dirt turnoffs,
      to find a resting place.
Away, in the cold air and iron chair
   a lion-faith smoker keeps his mouth open
      and his paper hot.
Further, an empty shed, red water,
   and my yellow headlights sign to me
      the night's come.
Further still, an opening between silver maples
   holds our dim voices and the vocals
      of the city.
Again beyond, new forms and a doorman,
   rich for the rest of his shift
      and hopeful yet.
But home has fishing rod arms
   that stretch taut, hook me sharp
      and spin me in.
Since I left, you dressed our house
   in mourning clothes as if it
      had given me up.