onion, curry, and
the guest who’s left
a ghost
onion, curry, and
the guest who’s left
a ghost
even
through winter—the firefly’s
bottle
as if any
thought and feeling were
translatable
spring’s warbling
seems louder in trees as yet
unladen
black enamel
unlayered—a sky too thin
for a bowl
watching shadows
recede until noon and grow
to midnight
blackboard ponds
clouded by erasures into
which you’ve dived
call the moon’s
half a smile—the last sign of
a Cheshire Cat
toward horizons
where time and distance are
the same
now a house that
last fall smoldered into flames
rebuilds itself