It was not my intention
to stay with you; a grain
of sand or rice would
understand.
A final look back
at jagged-white mountains
a homeland,
the lone wolf understands.
Time is not gravity's pull
but shapes of journey,
the curvature of dream
with its unplanned
arrivals and sudden
departure.
The dead rabbit on
the road, the burrowing
mole, the bird with its hollow
bones and webbed fingers,
the mother of my thorns-
wherever they go,
they go
briefly.
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