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.