Condition: Exile

To this day I am still asked about origins.
I have learned to intuit
when they don’t mean where I first
recognized the way indigo hills
pulled up like fleece to the sky
as it darkened into sleep.

Most days I am able to go about my business
without having to palm my thoughts
back into my pockets.
In truth I am shy as the wild green
plant whose precisely ordered leaves
retract at the merest touch.

I am wary of using the word gesture
though I know this is what most of us
traveling between the furrows rely on
for recognition. The tongue longs
to salve its thirst with salt,
only because this means it will drink again.

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