ISSUE: Spring 2017
Chambers fall to splinter gravel.
Leaf grows from my throat.
Walls forsake the crumpled ground
It is meant to hold up.
There is much so
A cavity will collect.
I ask to exit from the house:
Spirit of paper temple,
Spirit of cooking fire,
Sentinel at the door, what keeps
Within the loft.
This burns in heaven with
Remembrance of dust:
Spirit of kindling,
Inside the gourd.
My pocket keeps the disfigured
Orange years,
Used wooden
Matches.
I pin myself to the land-living
Slipping surely everborn.