Since the time a mountain
was eased on to
my philanthropic back,
I turned a nomad
home is where I am alive,
and so I carry my heart, my beak,
eyes, innards, skin and soul,
so no hope, nor fears are left behind
Home is somewhere to hide
my bruised fingers
from when I touched the fire
of your cardinal desire
A legacy that will live on in
brooches and necklaces,
combs, hairpins, frames for eyeglasses
delicate works of bekko art;
A sour old man’s curse, this home, mine
to wear as a wedding present that never arrived,
weighing down on my need to roam,
to not run in the race, oh to be a nomad!
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