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.