a book on a roof

now

only the wind reads

it

the pages know when

turns

perhaps a name

whitewashed, open, turning over

a history

not mine, its, ours

in the wake of some quake

will we stay the sunset

or sail the sunrise?

when i break a word open it is to keep from being alone

though there is no home in one word alone

a little summer comes late too early

what ear hears

to the ground

cherries are lanterning

what word seeds itself

if neither bird nor soil wants it?

what language grows

ripe above ground

less silence

for the speaking, only