my days like wooden matches within strike
pressed for moments, inciting fire by hand
fingertips to every surface flintlike
letters now tinder sparked from my inkstand
penned to entertain all foraging eyes
that graze upon a world of sights perceived
open, as is pleasant to imagine
them often, open, to contest and prize
effulgent fates that glow and are believed
to be bright, though suit a dream wherein

music through the window came at once to
fill airy corners of successive rooms
where memorizing the floorboard’s sinew
we fell out of step to our tuned heirlooms
for a verse we were relieved to forget
until melody found our reaching ears
open, as is very pleasant to keep
them often, open, for reminding yet
now without child’s strain to cement that hears
echoes through walls, isolating the deep

nuances on a tabletop resting
where sunlight is smoking when we awake
from dreaming to find our fingers testing
phrases we constructed before daybreak
building stories on our youth’s hammering
through connecting doors to architect’s play
open, left open, as is pleasant to
them often, ajar while all clamoring
intelligent arrangements steal away
home, though it was our homeless words we knew

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