She becomes a hermit crab, shrugging
on her new home, scuttling sideways
from shade to shade under its weight,
balancing new ideas on her shoulders,
shifting them for comfort, trying to avoid sores.
She has to move fast, now. From one spot
in the heat to another. Stop and rest,
adjust, then dash on again. Always
aware of time, of change, of the silent
nature of intensity. She has a distant memory
of a place before shells and shade and shifting.
Soon she will exchange this home for another
and another after that, restless. She is not,
whatever anyone says, looking for the perfect
fit, or for some atavistic dream of Home;
just one that is lighter than this, less claustrophobic,
patterned just so, with bends to fit her bumps.
