[a strange fortune …]

a strange fortune
the ministry where they linger—
throttle linking (and also separating)
belles from godsons (or ankles?)
a lovely novitiate
that homely workhouse,
that most quotidian of sizzles—
the portcullis?

what of grandmother porticoes—
postage-standing facade of tendons
or is it tom-toms?
pasted in plaid upon our donkeys
arguments, secular aggressors,
our spleens, our spelt,
wherever they may be,
legations sit with them awhile
affecting phrase-estimates
and the rondos of chants:

there’s no place like home … there’s no place like home … there’s no place like home …

What I’m Reading:

In the great room of many volatile gods
where I keep burning. Hot grass.
Absence of trees. In which a world keeps noxiously turning
for the survival of what?     Gives loss its feral name.

— Muriel Leung / “At the end of the world, you tell me about the bees”