Death, too, has unseasoned wiles—
its tongue I cut out with glass.
I was the dead laden in flight,
a faceless wanderer, pantomime
pilfered innocents' teeth, weaving
from every room where they sleep.
I called me house with refurbished
roof, cobbled walls grown over in
shrubs, swing door turned white
from winter’s mottled eyes, chimney
sagged with the weight of lakes.
I touched fingers once sunk to bones,
with seasons moaned of broad-stroked
swim and fireflies and mangrove sleep,
drifting always over water turning earth,
washed and air-dried, wind-knocked
march in white robe and old gaunt face.