without a country,
the man stole it
and no plants grew.
Nothing rose up,
no sight of faces loved,
everything known by feel and memory
only, by sound or the touch
of a hand, the placement of a foot,
being how it was navigated.
There was finally the feel
of a world, the feel
of a forgotten footstep,
a remembered boundary of skin
knowing the way
as sharks know in water
the paths of ancestors,
and the great turtles across land
travel as if all was safe,
and a touch in the street
may be a hand of kindness,
a hand with dreams.