These Cells Are Passages

The pillbox carries the halfmoon, recovery.
These antibiotics cause selective memory.
As sure as anything, the valve will snap
so seamlessly, we can wish it back together.
The pillow is hollow in the center, meaning
it waits for your head, its burden.
We anticipate with bloated egos the arrival
of the afterlife, cradling the notion we
never have to say good-night.
Where is home but an idea bursting, finally held
together with grass and ribbon, the shape of warmth.
Where is home but here or far away where
valves are imaginary, but the snapping is real.