We are older than our mothers and fathers

Always beyond and before conception


yes, we are our own porous ancestors

shells who come to only process occurrences


no longer concurrent with the course

of this eternal song-bird of moment


We are swollen in our borrowed homes


Oceans longing but swallowed

up in shorelines and bones


Cosmoses hollowed through closed palms

and still opened sockets


Buoyant colours and souls, lost

through un-enigmatic tongues and throats


Dilations of current and voice, narrowed

and foreshortened, paused

by the jaundice of the wrong thought

or word choice.


Trapped by mapwork

and palsied by our own distortions,

comforts and love of



enough of the half-heard world


we are born more than our own

and come to forget


we share language with the world

in a single, effortless gesture of breath