He came home. Said nothing. It was clear, though, that something had gone wrong. He lay down fully dressed. Pulled the blanket over his head. Tucked up his knees. He's nearly forty, but not at the moment. He exists just as he did inside his mother's womb, clad in seven walls of skin, in sheltered darkness. Tomorrow he'll give a lecture on homeostasis in metagalactic cosmonautics. For now, though, he has curled up and gone to sleep. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE SUPERSEDED by THOMAS HARDY SEVEN TIMES ONE [- CHILDHOOD. EXULTATION] by JEAN INGELOW WHY I WRITE NOT OF LOVE by BEN JONSON HUGH SELWYN MAUBERLEY: 13. ENVOI, 1919 by EZRA POUND SAN GABRIEL by LYMAN WHITNEY ALLEN TO DR. AIKIN by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD |