Home is where the heart is and my heart is
 out traveling. Up into the wild blue yonder,
 wingless, prayerful that this miracle of flight
  will not end, just yet.
 Also at home, with you, on the ground
 wherever you might be at the moment, grounded
 like a highschooler, like a wire, a bird and a wire,
 feet on the ground and my heart in my throat now, now
 in my feet, lawfully descending with gravity
 to the lower, lowest, most sought after
  most beautifully bound, home.
 Aspirations involve reparations, We reach
 for the stars wondering what we are.
 But my Reason has been found
 by finding you and looking down. And it is there,
  not in the stars of fantasized worlds, fifth
dimensions, sixth senses, holy parallel potentates of
 potentialities--that my feet will trace
 their slow as history itself dance:
 a walking calligraphy so subtle that it will take 40 years
 and more and a view from above
 with an impersonal remove and lofty attachment I hope
 to barely fail at that mythical two-backed beast; itinerant stasis;
 like the one I enjoy up here in the well attended air,
 to read the cursive strokes of my aggregate footsteps,
   like some fairy tale dissolve, "Once upon a time" or twice
 written on our little page of earth, ground,
 wherever our home may be
 will be
 wherever we happen
 to be.

 [Originally printed in the article: Grobel, Lawrence. "An Actor and a Poet." Movieline July 1998:   45+.]