Refugee, Walking Is the Most Human of All

So long to the papaya kingdoms
Of olden mothers,
 
The shepherdess igniting
Peels of bergamot.
 
Grief of chalk
Scribbles the form of an
Archangel.
 
Consider a pillow of mortars,
How the rubble of hair
 
Weighs dense together
With the pedestrian heft
 
Of never coming back.
 
Home is a sleeping whale.
 
Consider an armor
Of feathers, not to buffer the body from shelling,
 
But to be hoisted
As a skyless meteor fleeing for
 
An elsewhere chance
to land.
 
You will come back
To rescue your footsteps.
 
Towels spread on a road
As if forming: timeline
of cotton against
 
A pillared topography.
 
But this, the clap of hands in crisis
Shoveling out evacuees.
 
Empty your opera
In the howling of the sea.