The world is the perfect place to be born into.
Unless of course, you don’t like people
or trees, or stars, or baguettes.
Its secret is movement.
As soon as you have stepped back
to admire the scenery
or opened your mouth
to sing its praises
it has changed places with itself.
Infinitesimally, perhaps,
but those infinitesimals add up.
(About the baguettes,
that was just me being silly.)