I lie on the roof of my house,
I spread my hands and scoop with
bottomless lash-rimmed ladles
an upturned current, passive, smooth.
My head steps upwards, claiming
its rightful place among
the curve-sided hollow planets
that keep afloat the heaven's bark.
The raw tablet of my body
with writing pressed through it
bakes in the sun and grows hard:
soon nothing can be added
to the syntax of my veins and wrinkles
and hairs running along my belly
and tiny red spots under my nipples
and the cross within my navel.
I'll be complete and written,
ready for my head to read
as it swells in liquid heaven
and sprouts like a pumpkin seed.
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