a sun makes god of
dust mote

dancing
in the window-
frame

and an altar
of the fly’s green husk
silent
on the sill. the same
light warms
the new leaf and the broken glass

holding both
not named

your voice

a thrown coin

like answered static
via dead channels
the low hum of
wired wall

a quiet house
of all words
homeless

the sky is a locked
brass lid

you must cartograph
slow roots

slow
secret language

of a deep spring

awaiting in dark
neath all

thirsty, asking
and begging