the opposite of trauma

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on this pilgrimage, i take direction from

an old blind woman:

 

she knows the bones of the city

from the times before it was a city.

 

we climb and watch the clouds

accumulate, swirl across the

sky face like a sensate clock,

 

bear witness

with our bodies

as they open in wordless

 

prayer: motion, rhythm,

breath — the things men run from.

 

we come home and place slips

of spiral paper into bead boxes:

 

let go of the worry chain.

 

call forth the abundance

of our human inheritance.

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