The trick is to sew the holes in ragged pockets, patch them up with Milky Way goddess saliva and blow them dry, sans the sigh. The trick is the beauty of every rock-filled pothole, the beauty of the flood and the earthquake, the volcanoe's passion. Dignity and peace are presumed to distress, or they wouldn't be divine. Here, the truth is, every stone is a lip, a breast, a foot, a knee, a torso. Every pebble is a pupil.
Every palm is a map.
We are all nearing genius. Indeed, your feet can become feathers. Three words enduring tight-lipped blizzards are the matter. Three words that mean everything. We can eliminate lip-service maybes.