Footholds and Soles


                 We walk in footsteps we have never owned

dance in gestures of the animal who awakens us


amorphous – within the stone we hold


We were born old

in the knowhow of the baobab


We saw the mangroves

as their shadows wore holes

in our body


Aunty ocean told us

this was soul


before it came to be



it poured us in petrichor-

the smell of once was


whose nearness still

lingers here – there


restless familiar

as dust and chance

wake the absurd





There was a colobus, long

lost but passed before us – outstretched

in the palm of the afterwards


we asked her about otherness

and she burst outwards in

arcs of laughter


is that enough for you, if not, where to?



Marabous stalk somnambulant, beyond

the where-from of the oncoming

horizon, a chorus of slurred consonants

thrum-throng and call to us

swarmed within the wind, sweeping

up our tonsils, we hear a tickle

creep through – out inside


the opening O of vocal

spontaneous   call-of-the-owl

pulses life into the gulf

of our tired vowels




The elephant’s little cousin

shrieks a little louder

than you could believe


crescendoing and

slowing pure in-



spirit reaching full

for pitch


tearing to construct

and surpass its own

echo –


let go


little Pimbi, grow.



The Octopus knows

the color of before,

head of water

like yours was air


He spoke of a chameleon, who

blinked in his inward blink,


a wisdom older than thinking


a riddle to leave us there

nowhere but aware:



                  pierce your skin as it wrinkles 

                  in a rhythm of ghosts, those 

                 animate willings – touch and listens 

                  are vision,


                  see, you stubborn goat


                  you are

                  the hum the

                                      sum humming sun-


                                                                                   the answer to the conundrum

                                                                                   the hum-anima/l




                  the world is a walkabout, if but                           

                  an oyster          an odd choice 

                  of your words 


                 language is but land, sand and and 


The trail of voice

tailing inseparable

from yours


To listen to the earth

is at once the comfort

of being –




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