She sets a box burning,
wafting demons into the air, sootlings,
snarls of paper whirling heavenward.
Tax receipts, loans, mortgages.
A singe to the bloodletting.
A raucous good time. Newspaper-
thin, smouldered, the film of her life
lifts to the sky. To the east
is a kite, swelled with scrips
and blown bills, ancient recipes,
schedules, calendars. Its tail
is square with endeavors
of triangulation. The air
reads through it, a guide.
She keeps looking back and left,
over her shoulder, making sure the past
stays where it is, stationary.
A tree in the ground. Everywhere
she sleeps, a seedling sprouts.
Tornado tears. Photographs
of a countryside laden with chickens,
redolent with feed. A table,
a cornucopia of fake fruit,
a water glass turned on its lip.
An arrow of time. The distended
universe, bacterium, lain out
for all to see.
All sunshine is new. The world revolves
and she can't feel it. She is stuck
with images, the light bouncing
from smoke to her eyes and back again.