Since then, every day I’ve sought
a new sense of being.

I do not worry about being
a man,
that is,
I do not worry about being
my father.

I’ve kept track of the days
with particular interest
in the jicama’s tuberous root.

Whatever fear was
was distilled
to a single sensation,

like a ring
-finger tracing the eminent
spine of a book.

I have chewed clover
in the presence of guests,
made sure to shake the sediment
off my boots.

Like the salvia I have spoken
in a placid voice,
a deep pleasure like lake
-water obscuring these words.

I came to a conclusion:
shame is a construct, a sorry
pocket in which any pittance
seems frivolous.

At some point, I matriculated
as a magpie,

I have been happy
to report
all traces of forlornness
have dispersed.

And the body, humble & pliant,
finds the utmost joy

telling tall tales ad libitum
while holding
a hairy rope.