Are you a border dancer,

never wanting fully to be here and

forever a passionate sliver of now,

sipping the drops, and drinking the deluge,

wondering what place you actually occupy?

It’s a slippery stick

meant for the ripeness of the forest floor,

unintended for adolescent hands.

What feeds does not come from you-

one so easily confused, acting comically small and guilty.

Real nourishment soaks in with time and respect

from Beyond-

origin of nectar and mystery, the breast milk

of endowed life in service to the Gods.

Leave the stick to its mushroom duff

where growth and decay follow ancient rhythms.

Dance there,

the place unnameable, infinitely creative,

and belonging to no one.