and this is how i feel in the world.
winged with dandelion.
holding up the remanence of past wishes and the hips of mother’s grown wide with expectation.
my hips grown cold from lack of touch.
spilled nectar and more paper work than imaginable.
left askin’ questions.
to myself about the movings of things.
only to find them answers, which were once hidden
behind bathhouse stalls, dirtied slacks and other such things.
and i walked a mile for clarity the other day
watched the plight of us pass by without weeping.
i found myself held in the arms of a magic greater than touch.
put my hand to it and thought
“this is what home feels lak.”