if you believe in this you should blow all the ashes in your hands
calluses from all the vigorous rubbing,
one golden pot with warm angles,
and silky, weightless wishes,

if you take something in your right hand you should give up your left hand
and now your lap, geometrical and warm,
that never looks for direction,
that never truly belongs,

if you discard a book it should be half-read
a torso you are holding on to,
cited word by word,
by now a stranger,

battered and stolen, crushed and blown up,
you'll see me catch the ashes and
murmur to myself
it's okay
it's okay.

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