Will I go back in time? 
Wet stockings, drying like chapped hands on weazy radiator
Your disapprobation, her disinterest, parents who
Took poorly to the role
And I, their disappointment
Not strictly failure
More a damp root, a smell of mold
Reminding them of empty spaces within themselves
I lay, hot brow, empty handed, slack mouthed, dearticulated by illness
Briefly relieved to be cut loose
And years passed overhead without sound
Tiny dancers on the globe turning time
Until they could not be certain, of ever having had
A child
Nor was I sure, I had been born
Such is the potency of separation
We can remove ourselves to point of extinction
And now I may return, the Archer retracing steps
With fine lines and trembling notion, mangled by distance
They cast every doubt in nets of resentment
No doubt it was a relief not to attempt a role
Illsuited to 
People without need
We forget
Going home is often empty