the sauntering paradox

of belonging, asymptote of becoming known
pawing a yarn ball of the infinite in each square
of bustling soil, each square of darting nuclei 

we were harboring a holy gift, a slow fermenting
secret, balm for the generational tear of being
liminal and temporary, of being promised to our
children while the tapping of our blood draws
inevitable estrangement, circles twin losses of
here and home

but we are bent on breaking the offering, on
holding the throat of its achingly beautiful song 

maybe we can’t see ourselves worthy of such
finely rendered wisdom, such squirming generosity
funneled to each deserted heart

maybe a mask of cruelty fastened of our weathered
skin, a crusade of uprooting sewn in our rounded palms,
a wall of tumbled breath, feels more real than becoming
exquisitely porous to every delicate grip on living mirroring
our own