your hands tweezer, / your fingers comb.

I grow crooked /
where sidewalks flay open, creased by earthquake.

Have you ever felt like a ghost in a nation without graveyards?

what won’t burn when you’ve sown madness?

The days poured out in a continuous stream, disappearing as though through a sieve.

keep / fertile the jambu groves our fathers freed. let us be more than / echo of river’s ebb.