One Day We Will Want to Be Here

We were born clutching this thing, a feather in the river

And now we wander looking for the other, a wing

under a rock, maybe, in someone’s hair, or belly:

wild scream, ancient whisper. Under a wood pile,

in the middle of the country stands a man, alone

for thirteen years, keeping to himself a secret

well. The livestock know his mind. Each morning

it breaks over wheat, like a sun with its eyes closed,

carrying wood from the river, bits of moss, a heart

without an anchor. It says, Can’t stay here. In the middle,

everything spells out twisted heart, joy, at once. We are

born with him in his rib as fish, swimming upstream,

toward him, a mind the simplest middle-county stone

knows, There-is-Nowhere-to-Go-For-Safety.


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