How many years, how many faces,
Weeping for graces,
Hiding amongst the dead,
And stealing bread
To fill their empty souls.

The weight of their broken bits
Always weighing, weighing, weighing
And I fall remiss.

I weep for the little ones,
The wandering bones
Who have ached long
For a home, for a song,
To fill their empty souls.

The weight of their broken bits
Always weighing, weighing, weighing
And I fall remiss.

And if I weep
Surely You, who knows no sleep,
Must keep vigil, must keep track
Of all the little hearts
who can’t fight back,

The weight of their broken bits
Always waiting, waiting, waiting
For someone to assist,

And You exist,
And therefore mend.

Perhaps
I was made to move
Pulsing through the corners
Of His body: His structured
Fluid foreigner
And family.

Perhaps
I have called homeless
What is merely lent:
A massive network of home
Housing everywhere I’m sent
By every new pulse.

Perhaps
I cause injury
When I stake my homestead claim
On some sluggish slope,
Some quiet piece of vein,
And pleasant place to clot.

Perhaps
I am meant to move,
Feeding, and being fed
Neither pooling, nor congealing,
But always being led
Through each static system-

Through the hands,
The feet,
The Head.

Maybe some nights
Breathing sterile, filtered air,
I crave the bugs a’biting,
A screen door scrapping somewhere
Crisp harmonica cutting through the dark
Like a mouth-foamed, four-legged stray
Who bites tame, but you should hear the bark
Warding off the turn of day
So we can sit together, one by one by one
Burning whatever’s left of our regrets
On a smoky fire of bon
Or at the end of cigarettes
Dancing wild around the open flame,
To feel the heat of air and blood-
To call it out, to use its name
This craving of grass, and heat, and mud.