my hands are made for hiking / my mouth can blink and stare / my lakes can whisper riddles / my utter thoughts lie bare
why do I still write poems / in a world that / loses her mouth / I throw my words at / a time that bleeds and shivers / my lines may stick / may crumble / may float / but I still birth / my lines and / I still bare my delights

linger no more / in dust and broken riddles / pick up your lines / your words and ancient woes / relight your glow / and giggle at your sorrows / your light is here / just follow where it flows

my views / are mounds and peaks and rivers / my breath / a fleeting rush of sky / the moss / that covers my own fingers / births clouds / and then a butterfly

so I return / from the tower of a hundred cities / from the water nymphs‘ tepid castles / from the alchemist’s almost ancient mouth / and all though I did not pack / any fleeting recollection / my genes shine and smile / and tingle / as my palms / turn to plum jam / and rain
where do I seek shelter / in the city that / was never born / in shade of the district / that she never claimed / do I not dance / over her night-lost pavements / do I dream of her river /whispering / in her day-filled voids / do I claim her never-written name / as the place where I was born / do I seek residence / between thousands of towers / unplanned