the way my lips touch the ground on return home
should feel better than this but carpet
blocks the soil from beneath me and i
lack the wherewithal to again bend to my
knees and kiss the dirt beneath my feet
when i finally reach the red soil of my motherland

here the wind blows harder
than you might remember
though you’ve probably never come

and here the people are meaner
than you might expect from such
kind faces

and so i’m tempted to bend my knees
and press again my lips to the ground
and screw the dirt that grits between my teeth

soul-searching
best left to the
not-so-faint of
heart, I think.

The question, though, remains:
how to test the faintness
of one’s heart without
a little bit of
soul-searching