Because I don’t find it unbecoming.
Unbecoming would be to spin my head
a mirage, the curled branches
that disturb it like rays troubling
the resting sky.
A tired traveller eating
from the fallen green pods
stoke the fires within,
knock at a few more doors.
Maybe this village has the address
of his beloved.
Maybe the greeters don’t notice his teeth:
emerald of bare longing; beyond scrub.