Code

Inside the teacher’s office
is a slab of stone, roughly chiseled
with shapes we have no key for.

It is wide enough for me to lie down
and stretch until my extremities
touch the jagged edge.

He demands I see a dolphin
where he sees one. As his favorite, I must
find the white that swims in black.

The teacher asks I think on the dolphin,
how it floats in the ocean
filled with other life.

I fail. I tell him I have found it.
He believes me. I fail again.
I lie on the stone and swim.

Heartram 

Heart’s ram
not meant to be swung but
seen is a burning
torch scorching doors.

A turf-filled gorge 
in soil made from dragging it
this far, hoeing a path veiled
in smoke. Pebbles
bounced like a cork shot
straight into an eye searching
a sky full of signs—
the one-eyed can’t see with full
comprehension,
night and its lights
turning slowly.

Tart wine
poured like night’s cape
engulfing my ant-eaten
sandal wood house ashen
after fire, fragrant
on tongues.

Firemen stagger
in the gone room— 
resting by a door,
look through its keyhole,
and glimpse the ram’s
heart, final full beat
spinning on a spit roast. Fire hose
cool in gloved hands
dances like white snake
in tall grass.