the coffee steam is not just steam,
but a ghost of the old wood,
where a thought, not yet a thought,
was a low branch and a quiet mood.

the hand that grips the steering wheel
is a fist that once knew knuckle-walk,
that held a stone, and knew the feel
of a termite mound on a evening stalk.

the argument, quick and hot and mean,
is not a flaw, not a sin, not a crime.the buried clove
it’s the chimp on a territorial screen,
screaming out his ancient time.

the laugh that breaks and makes the peace,
the touch that asks for no return,
is the bonobo’s sweet release,
a lesson that the world can learn.

and the weight you feel, the heavy crown,
the harem of worry you drag to work each day?
that’s the old gorilla, pacing town,
who forgot how to simply rest and play.

so let the performance briefly cease.
let the actor’s mask of sapience fall.
there is no script. there is no peace.
there is only this, the raw, the all.

for a moment, be the un-made thing.
growl in the traffic. groom a friend.
be the raw bone the gods still ring.
this is not acting. this is the end.