Do you know the verb to be
is irregular in every language? 

We are bones, skin, the pulp in between
and ten thousand irregularities.

Some days, we are the only porch swing in existence
and everything else is lava. 

Other days, we are grain from Carthage in Roman hands. 

We are kids and there are dogs somewhere across the ocean
that would be glad to see us. 

None of us are oceans by ourselves, but sometimes we are rivers.
Other times, we are only red.

Some nights we sleep on the floor and some nights we whistle
like we know a new world is just as likely as an old one.

We want to be right in our ways, even in the wrong ones and in that
we’re no different from the hermits that take to the mountains.

Only the mountains we seek are inside of us
and sometimes they’re red and sometimes they’re rivers.