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The cloud-born rock, whose face
feasts on butterfly kites

the secret cleft in every beach
where sand falls into the greater burning

the tenth place in my being
grown for you to inhabit

harbors of debris-licking water
benches where seated forms
fall through sleeping shadows

remain homeless, though they return to mansions
retain heat, though they rift through city time
deep into the arctic

cloud-born bones
finding a pond's orchestra

a faint sidewalk on a sudden plateau
kitchens that won't save caresses for a bedroom
and steam from deep in undiscovered branches
to vaporize the blood and make flight easy

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