when the clouds like milk in water billow and spill
down the low places of the mountains
and the late sun light is too smooth to believe,
I am a student of movements of the heart.
when I am bestowed a life of co-toil in worthy soil
with kin closer than blood by choice and not by choice,
and wake every day springing from my floor
ready to do what I was built to do,
as a pelican must feel when it sees its wings work on the lift of wind by the crest of waves at the shore, I am a student,
when a best friend is committed to raise too much money
for too high a mountain and kids too burdened with chains they did not fasten,
and a best friend shares a cigarette with me to confess his sins and
make me feel less alone,
I am a student of movements of the heart,
for they are neither joy nor sorrow,
but one part longing, one part hunger, another thirst,
and a space in my chest and fingers and knees,
that makes me wish to be barefoot,
to burst into mist and mingle there
where I have no body but all of it at once.
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