This being human is a minefield:
One never knows when memories
Will blow up right underneath one’s feet
Nor seep into consciousness, soon to
Fall out of eyes, seeing the past.
One never knows — there might be peace,
And then certain words speak
(get that sonofabitch Rumi
out of my alleged “guest” house) —
Rest. We vilify these memories.
Alive they are buried, while we die.
Let them be.
This being human… is a seed.