Of two materials, the houses of straw

and the houses of stone. But where

is the history of wood, the language

of vines and fronds that weave into

crevices where no nails or beams

can go; manifesto of the trellis

around which tendrils vine into

the indistinguishable? You are

as enamored of space that allows itself

to be held, as by that which is always

spiraling away in a column of smoke or some

other fleeting signature. Of the past

and the future, where you are is either

consequence or precondition. But

you want to insist it is both: how

the skin of one touches the belly

of the other, how there is a mouth

on the nape, a finger on the pulse,

a coin spinning in the sun to pave

the water in the basin with copper;

a break in the roof that lets in

rain, through which the light is also

an artifice that practices gathering.

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