Coming back home from camping
was like eating with a fork
after so many months in India
eating with only the salty softness
of my own hand.
I close the door behind me
and my house strikes me
as unnecessarily thick,
as if its only job is to fend off
the outdoors,
which is true.
I open the door back up
and leave it that way,
even as it begins to rain,
wondering how long ago it was
that I forgot
I, too, am wild.