(Continuing) Improvisations


A ruin is a ruin is a ruin. 

Translation: The only trade worth learning 
is the one that brought you here. Outside the fence, 
a vine whose flowers open at night. Discarded pumpkin
seed shells in a bowl. Daylight makes a rippled
weft across one wall, makeshift movie screen.
Say grace, say enough; a syllable for every
sieved grain of rice.


Tend to your worries like a meteorologist.

Translation: A clothesline sags 
from the weight of water trapped in cloth. 
The sleeves holding it in. The trouser legs 
and coat pockets. Despite the abundance
that was pressed into a handkerchief,
it's waving again, lightly.


In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

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