A Dot in Soot

A splinter in the mouth. Like a dream. A forgotten dream.

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Bluebells sway, their arched mouths Tracing like fins the perimeter of the fist.

The forgotten house lurks in the creeping hedge

Of eyelashes—a plump memory. Guava trees host the limbs

Of children as they scour the bones of the trees and lick

The crepe fruits. Each room hugs another, mimicking

The embrace of a child and father. Creepers entwine

Into robust visions—the pigtails of a small child. Home is

Where thoughts take root. Grow into the naked soil and emerge

As bulbs. Home is where dreaming mouths overlap in sonorous circles.

Sleep tying them into unity. Home is where the letters of intimacy

Swiftly knit into one another. Home is where one first faces oneself,

Becomes oneself—the mirror to a conclave nature. Home is where life’s