these winding, blind itineraries
and their purposeful turns;
bends on the wry pavements,
their naming of things
awaiting the return of memory
with an auspice, or a head with bounty,
i am but a bamboo in
the wind — slender gymnast
supple ground's tenement,
or daresay honestly, a creeping into
the world with roots close to
heartland, this poem
now, without feet and my eyes
with surgery-precision ruptures
the softness of all things held close
and divine like a secret,
swimmingly
light coming in
unabashed rooms
here now is a poem,
a homecoming.
Oct 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015 at 10:57 AM UTC
these winding, blind itineraries
and their purposeful turns;
bends on the wry pavements,
their naming of things
awaiting the return of memory
with an auspice, or a head with bounty,
i am but a bamboo in
the wind — slender gymnast
supple ground's tenement,
or daresay honestly, a creeping into
the world with roots close to
heartland, this poem
now, without feet and my eyes
with surgery-precision ruptures
the softness of all things held close
and divine like a secret,
swimmingly
light coming in
unabashed rooms
here now is a poem,
a homecoming.
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