The Cornerstone and the Literary Review's November Poem of the Month

Tyler Florence

No Home

How odd to enter a house with no doors,
no fair faces found to flirt over floors,
no shadows seen stretching along stand still walls,
no farewells cried out, nor whispered, nor called.
No windows skinny, caressed sight shudders,
no basements bone bare, stripped sick lovers.
No roots over head or space under stairs,
no delicate brush of soft flowing hair.
Know, nothing is air of a lonely hall.
No home is no house of no building at all.