The Poet on the wound becomes the landmark

The body keeps what the skin forgets.

A shoulder rides higher than its brother — ask it why and it answers in weather, in the way it will not turn left into the light.

Not the hole. The going-around. The path learned the wound and then unlearned the wound and kept the going-around —

a shell built on a shell, the flinch outliving the thing worth flinching from.

Read me by my Tuesdays. By the month I move through fast. By the room I enter, always, from the farther door.

Water will tell you where the mountain stands by never once running through it.

There is a morning you will not clock when the scar stops being a cliff and becomes an address. Paths run through it now. Real paths. Not detours. Not apology.

The house is still there. Yes. That was always the problem, and never the wound.

So — don’t stop. Don’t straighten the shoulder yet. The tilt is the map. The swerve is the truest line you’ve drawn. Follow every road that bends away until the bendings cross,

and walk, on purpose, to the crossing, and lay your hand flat on the ground, and call it here.