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.
viewingcamelot 
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