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