Still incomplete…

I walk with the
unfinished people,
over this
eccentric landscape,
guided
by vague visions of
home.
We patch ourselves
with
weeds and
fungus,
and
sometimes, when
we least expect it,
we find some
vital
pieces of ourselves,
strewn across the steppes,
or
stuffed inside the
picture frames of
strangers…
things
we never knew were
missing but
which fit
into our memories
like
puzzles.
Those are good
days.

 

 

 

I once found my hands,
so
now, each day,
in passing,
I wave to
the thriving
locals.
They welcome me
to their
christenings, weddings, funerals…
but
their alien crops
confound my
partial
guts and palate.
I almost envy these
others,
rooted in their
full forms.
They have all the
parts
they need for
getting on with it.
Families. Careers. Success.
Nothing seems to be
missing.
They can all afford
to
offer me their
gift-wrapped
compassion
before they die.