How lovely is my house,
the gate to it is ivy laced
under the magnifying glass where I'm content.
How orderly is my garden, tree embraced,
that like veined arms in sleeves of green
raise to the sky the smoking reed of breathing.
From there, fingers of the week deposit days of fruit.
From there, ice strips naked and performs erotic
to the hosts of sweeping stars and falling comets.
I walk these swirls of fragmentation; the nearly distant strands of death.
I come upon butterflies celebrating their own emancipation.
Up and down and around they figure till they themselves are finished.
I see stars a twinkling.
Of course it's true that stars don't twink.
At given moments they blow their fuses.
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