clothed by The Glory
seem to have no anxiety
unlike this precious creation
nail biting, nirking
constantly shifting thoughts straying
fretting about such impossibilities as the past
mattering the worry stone often.
those lillies
(tigers, easter whites, everyday sunset orange)
reminding me
nothing is as perfect as this moment.
And why not?
Why not believe that this moment is perfect?
The laws and regulations
the systems that malfunction
such crazy-making
where the sane are locked up
or locked down
or locked in
locked around one another
trapped
quietly desparate
may there not be (is there?) perfection
in the unemployment
the injustice
the cry of the
dispossesed
the grim joy
of the filmmaker documenting it all -
the reaper
or even
the woman who laughed
when she told me
of the slaughter
how she made it here
to an admin job
filling somebody else's papers
she
born to a village of sweet potatoes
green beans, maize and bright mornings greeted
by chickens who ran free before
the men came who
tore it all apart
now sits besides me on this bus that
sways with colour and carbon fumes
it doesn't take long
to connect
our hips touching now turning we're looking
(so rare, here, to really look.
but we do.)
a moment of openness.
all my hours in front of a computer
hers: that long walk
out of Africa
fades even as it defines our shape and
for a moment
we are just two lillies
on a red bus
swaying
in life's chance-winds
possibly maybe even this is
Perfect.
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