just for the joy


talk to the burning home

land, to the nomad honing

in for a stay,


and you will hear

the same night-


sky listening,

wandering around

telling the same

stories — in stars,


in measures of waves of dust

of mountains that form and

pass away into holy chaos and


catastrophe — just a bar

above extinction.


we, the blessedly unlucky,

dance on the slip of




waiting for

fight or flight;


or a lucky



it is such perplexity

to sit still


just for the joy,


just for the touch of

this fur, the call of

this cardinal,


the whir of this white

owl stirring the snow.




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