In a journal in well written white,
the presupposition of posies,
the assumption of risk.

Beyond books,
cinders drift lonely through cities
too hot to feel their burn.
All that dust
that pushes pavement forward
to an unforeseeable finale is from
dust to dust

in a fourth world, my mother
cooks salmon on a simulated Saturday.

On a Sunday superimposed on the
wall of my one thousandth year,
my daughter wears sapphires,
asks me for a pond.

Age burrows in me like a tick.
I will write it away.

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