i try to not be vengeful but still think mostly of jail

i imagine myself
in a beautiful house, thinking
i may be beautiful in it.
i wear a coat
the color of gold, thinking
in it i may be of value.
i own a bicycle and
three duffle bags.
i own socks
and underwear made from
wool. i own a coat
impervious to water,
another meant to puff up
with my own warm air.
i dream of
a wooded piece of
land, a small home
built upon it.
the floor is made
from slate, it is
heated. a golden coat
hangs by the door,
warm, cooling. the house
is small, it is
full. there is music
and silence. light
and glacial patience
of dark. there
are three duffle bags
on the floor,
one of them filled
with wool. my heart
is made of bleeding
muscle. it is made
of beauty and
sorrow. this is
what i own.
all that i have,
it is only
borrowed.

this land is not mine
to own. these fish
are not mine to sell.
this body is not mine to abuse.
these words are gifts.
do we use our gifts
for harm? can i burrow
into this borrowed ground?
might this fish swim its way from
my storming stomach, back out
to the sharing sea?

Published by Zak

an intertidal island in an ocean of impermanence.

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