Home is where the heart is, they say,
They who are not me or you or anyone we know
Yet I think they got it right, just a little right this time.
Home is where the hearth is, you say, joking,
While the flames lick warm orange around us
And I think there must, there surely must be magic in these slippers.
Home is where the heart’s hearth smoulders.
That space where you curl up, a sleepy comma on my chest,
While I think, “ach there’s no place, there is no place so sweet”
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