It’s been a gibbous age since
truth wind blew away the roof and all my
goods, save for a splintered shell of a house.
Today I built a bonfire in the yard and burned
your poems first thing. Next I pulled down
walls and ripped up floorboards ’til I
scraped bedrock with bloody fingers. Now
I start again, this time compelled by my own
heart-hewn blueprint. Each wall will be a
far horizon. Stars serve dreamers better
than shakes or shingles. With a view
like that, a scope like that, there’s no need of
windows, and I won’t close doors again. The
native rhythm of my breath falling and rising
is gravid with promise enough to pull the moon.
Let Me Build Myself Instead
after Masahide, trans. Beilenson and Behn