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

unresponsiveness

 

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

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