64-68

64.

Victims of the story

exilic sparks, homeless

recollect themselves

lift up the past, living,

to strip story, history

from themselves

themselves who gave

the present as gift

as a gift is loss also

then a mission to regain

something different entirely;

story is sacred, an act

altared and sacrificed in the words

to be always new again my hand is lost in it

a transformation no longer interested in its evidence

is the reflection being born

he said, a broken hodometer naked on the hill-top

as the grounds changed persistent with charisma.

65.

Huluppu tree whatever you can name presides

a galaxy of doors for the trees to advance

every snake a memorial a word without a curse.

66.

So I must have been in transit, always homeward

flighted from the burning city

smoking, the way one does, in reconnoitering out. 

67.

Orange dances onto the desk light itself is a veil

heavy with histories, lifting you through

some foreign shore the light beyond the light.

68.

Finally see the flower in your hand

that blue thing so far away

impatient with confirmations.