- I make marks on cloth with needle and thread
little trails, small tracks
that lead to somewhere.
- We make our bed on a borrowed floor
taped together vinyl mats and bamboo sheets
blankets stolen from the skies between hemispheres.
- He makes music with builder’s hands on worn wood
a body and neck as old as his father’s
fingers picking strings like beauty fresh born.
- They make house from found things
salvaged floors, windows, doors
building walls of second-hand stories.
- She makes slow stabs at sentence forming
stringing words through ideas
hoping truth will bind.
- You make sounds that vibrate
on skin, through bone, touching spines
- We make lamplight from moonlight
trace the constellations with our fingertips
follow the path of the sun.
- He makes the world into metaphor
drawing curtains over private spaces
keeping some truths filtered, unseen.
- I make movements and motions
pushing rhythms through hip bones
teaching lead feet to take flight, soar.
- They make bounty from remnants
living both fragmented and fully whole
migratory contradictions, thriving.