No—not in the sense of identity and access,
but the instantaneous home making
that occurs on the street
(or any other random assembly place)
when wide open, yet slightly guarded gestures
without any pre-established vocabulary
spur the one glance…two glance…now not looking away way of gazing.
In it: recognition and
space to explore that which is co/incidentally familiar
and wholly other,
where in hearing t/his story,
the mortar (a.k.a “my” body) of past time pain seems translatable
and the potential of passion futuristically redeemed.
Deeply personal, and not, this politic.
A relationship.
A refuge--
one that welcomes in
and pushes back out
any wilderness fearing/seeking wanderer.
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