Once, in the land that once was
Home to all of us, a man
Whose blood, he said, was so mixed,
He could claim each named mass home
But felt that he came from none.
His name was Morn. Yes, it was
Not his birth name. It was close.
He said, more than once that day
I spent with him, My da said
You should be sure you do not
Count out a soul. They’re all good.
Takes all types to make a world.
Seems wise. Seems shrewd and kind, too.
I liked him. I knew he was
On the make—the take as well—
But I liked him. Years and years
On, I find I have to ask,
For real? Do we need all types,
Each one, to make a whole world?
I think the world would do fine
Sans my type, and I can think
Of a few more types it might
Not need much, to be a world.
I’m not sure the world needs types
Of us in the least. We do.
We need to make and have kinds—
Form dents, beats, marks, sketched stones, strikes—
We need to have all our types.
They’re our made world. Not the night’s.
