that I often tend to in prayers,
amidst rubbing my feet together
to wake up in time, the yearlong sun
I tried to deceive peeping by the glass
window. Holy in my head: you holding
on to what remained of me from the
night and breathing another life into it,
heated water to set forth the intention
of abstaining, this new hemisphere.
What does it mean to graduate
your way through the world? I stayed in
a version of it that has bite marks and
gold chains so I cannot assert the right
to discontent again. When I look at trees
I think of your body as their trunks,
leaves reaching to call heaven like you
did or would, roots beneath the ground
where I used to wish for refuge a great
deal I started to see the sky as the enemy,
more or less a betrayal from memories
that have learned that it was where
you were conceived. Places of bliss;
only a few of them left today.
Four months prior to meeting you
in the flesh I talked to Claire about
this scriptural nature she envisioned.
There is a story of faith somewhere, like
magnificent clash. What if what remains
was only a door for departure not for
returning. What if there could be both but
after you molder the globe. What if I knew
how to water a name that echoed
during days of refraining.