Like a pilgrim, I always save the last loaf
Placing it silently on the table
next to the salt and pepper holders
When I reach home and there,
unwilling to disturb
the nocturnal sleep of a native land
I put off my sleepwalking episodes
And tip-toe my way back to bed.
To my mind, this is salubrious living
Preferable to any tumult spectacle
Lacking any real depth.
Under the stellar ferment,
There are plenty of heights to look up to
And embrace the order of things.
For a soul being at peace with the world
A peregrine falcon spreading his wings.