This could be a gentle misreading of the present.
A refugee’s opinion proportionally is sleight of hand. When
recused, these facts may mean what they mean and nothing more.
In all this consistency, wave after wave, repetition thrives.
Our worth worn thin from constant caress and co-conspiracy.
Identified as politics, we fray like threads and break thinned lines.
Collective bodies form margins, front lines, or could be imaginary
shorelines draped in motion as graceful as the absence of regret.
These are our redemptive spaces splayed into a radius of sovereign roots.
“I knew the tension in me between love and power, between pain and rage, and the curious, the grinding way I remained extended between these poles – perpetually attempting to choose the better rather than the worse.” —James Baldwin
I read all the names
of the passing sacred rivers and creeks
as roadside memorials blurred
into permanent mile markers.
Horizontally speaking, it was a longing.
When you knew you were in trouble, what did you do next?
These days, and for some time since,
I move with spiritual abandonment—
neglect now atmospheric radiance.
Habitual as landscapes,
my divided thoughts pull towards you.