Rewriting old poems

V1: Why the tortoise got its shell 

Since the time a mountain

was eased onto

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

My shell, polished into

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.

V2: Why the tortoise got its shell

Since the time a mountain 

was eased onto

my back,

I turned a nomad

home is the weight that keeps me

tethered to this earth

I carry my heart, my beak,

even the hollow places where hope used to live

nothing escapes. Nothing is left to chance.

Home is somewhere to hide 

my bruised fingers 

from when you touched the fire 

of your cardinal desire.

This home, a sour old man's curse,

I wear it like a wedding gift that never arrived,

weighing down on my need to roam, 

to not run in the race, to simply drift,

the way a nomad does.