They deal me from the bottom of the pack,
those two-headed jacks who face both ways
and find, in either direction, only their
own narrow envy wearing my face
like Joseph’s coat; let them shuffle,
for I care not. I have stopped
auditioning for the myth of the finished thing,
that painted nowhere where nobody has ever dwelt.
Look, if you care to see:
the fractured cup still holds the tea.
The bent nail still embraces the house.

I am the world I was given
and the long walking I have done in it,
and I am enough, whole like a river flowing,
living while it is moving,
and if you must try to reduce me in your lens,
stand on my back, where the wind is,
and watch from there the
strength of my walking.

 

9/8/2026