of sorts, blue-green sea slidinginto
sands –
the peahen – actually – is not so drab.
*
You wander fencings –
to turn soil – the immigrant
knows
what it is to move
for movement is
in our naming –
even when our own naming
is not part of any movement –
even as we are branded drab.
*
You remind yourself
of your luminous. Your eyes
trace misplaced
joy – a dark grace
tuning,
a dark grace
nesting.
*
Resilience bristles iridescent – new
lands you dream. You cannot remember
your first
form
of dreaming – an immigrant
is always
imagining belonging
while holding tight to one’s
longing.
*
Before feathers flare, a bent head
unsettling landscapes – discovering
a way to strut if not to fly.