of sorts, blue-green sea slidinginto
sands –

the peahen – actually – is not so drab.



You wander fencings –


to turn soil – the immigrant



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



a dark grace



Resilience bristles iridescent – new

lands you dream. You cannot remember


your first



of dreaming – an immigrant


is always


imagining belonging
while holding tight to one’s



Before feathers flare, a bent head

unsettling landscapes – discovering


a way to strut if not to fly.