By | 1 November 2016

Strange temples vie their architects.
Outside in the territory of birds
a carpenter is constructing a roof
as if today, tomorrow, legs might
escape into wings. We nest,
we break open, we give birth
to what we feed. In the compost,
molecules, imperishable atoms,
old lives razed and bodilessly
rephrased by an Earth that rejects
nothing. This year a wild sweetness
is growing my garden, self-sowns
ripening so vibrantly there’s a chance
for storage. The egg in my hand
is also ripe. It trembles like a
seismograph. Whether to breach
the shell. Which way the cracks
would run, which way the blood.

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