It Stills

It stills. The brownness grown murky, but still lively. As it were. The places that silence, or are not deliverable keep retreating. When you catch an alligator, catch it by it's tail. Our dialect points us out. The food we eat four times a day. The women dance with their breasts, all else is unmoving. We want these presences to be called home. If we are not from here we are not from and will be able to go. The consistency in each breath. Or how we have understood plight before this encounter. We determine, our pots boiling over with rice and beans and extra spoons.