somehow i became a foreigner
amongst excess of imagination
and creation.


i like old things
like sunlight
ducks
mother and sadness.

bread.

lakes, lagoon, fog.

bones

warm skin
dreaming at afternoon.

somehow they return the fullness
not above or below
but vibrating in the current of things,
spirit sailing in the melancholy mist.


everything still in its right place
still, somehow
even though we're desarraigo

but no one really had a home

and home wasn't even us.
we breathed.

soft breaths rise from two shore birds
up into a wild land
and fall back into bed

it never became anything more.