This is what I talk about
when I talk about the wandering
vagabond muse: truly truly
the difference between “getting”
and going that of “seeming”
and being that between “rare” and raw.

The wanderer, alit with the muse of
equitable bliss
rarely gets anywhere.
Instead opts for the slow
methodical languid locomotion
of going. Going where?
Going here. Perchance
there. Going
anywhere, and
going no where
at all.

A soul infused with aimlessness
doesn’t seem to be anything, anyone:
that anima exists as whole as can be,
a being through and through.

It’s a root system world for the roamer,
and never is it less about
being rare:
this is no bonsai we speak, nah–
more the big, sweeping, lopsided darling,
prepared for treehouses and
tire swings alike, ready with shade
on swell summer days, for the
mid-day shady doze.

A vagabond isn’t molded, cooked,
or cut whimsically;
that sort of soul is best kept raw;
if kept at all.

The reader brings his or her own perspective to a poem and gives it meaning.

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