Bone of my bones

My muscles pull at the bones of my arms. At the bone of my bones.
I'm lean and sinewy and strong. My skin is brown. But my body tells me,

"you're not quite right yet, you're not quite home,"

But this is the home I've built, defaulting to some boyhood dream
after crashing through, emptied out and fed up man-soul in crisis body.

"You're not quite right yet, you're not quite home,"

My refusal to seek these things by proxy in a woman. Maybe this is just
the human feeling "this rootlessness" this seeking. Or maybe it's
encapsulated in the words some wise woman summarily,
but not unkindly, once spoke to me, "poor men"