The mother of your soul died
aged, and beautiful to you as cedar
or black bamboo. You prayed then
in your own way, letter by letter,
a tear knotted into every syllable.
And I envy you her and her, you.
Grass in a busted flower pot envying
a limestone glade. Some days I’m so dry
the future is too brittle and thin
to trust, and the past has worn itself
featureless, flat as paper. It’s then
I wish for a sign painter of the old,
migrant, alcoholic kind. To make my walls
say something clear. Like EATS, or GOD,
and beautifully, even if it is a lie.