The birds are everywhere, and hardly sing

and I am anywhere, an only thing

(speak softly, and we do not own the land):

a thin wind settled, spored on cotton sand

and convoluted. Wind over the land.

The birds are everywhere, and hardly sing,

I am a settler, who was settled here

to speak and have no words about this land.

Its touch is built on shreds of spoken sand.

Its beat is in sad bound and open hands.

Its old words sing in words my ears can’t hear,

since they were spoken here, not anywhere,

and I am anywhere, an only thing,

while birds are everywhere, and hardly sing,

and my home fills me up with touching hands

I cannot touch, which never owned the land.

From Spells