Bumps along genetic material
herald change in the form of
tom-tom beats
and blown unicorn horns
Listen: as skin gathers
something like grace takes shape
of rivers converging
An ancient truth squeezes
its way to form whatever fits
into a new fist
so it can be dropped again
My sweetheart knows
wind will not stay on the hilltop
and our dance shifts with the sun
The Word Rummager 
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