Come August ,a body becomes
A spirit with the sacred thread
From left to right, on its chest
Slung under a bare chest cloth.
Its lips lost to smoked thought,
Body awaits its dance on a fire
And its assistant wood smoke,
A crow to pick up a ball of rice
On glass spiked backyard wall.
Body in thought is rarefied air
Body’s body ,looking for food.
Come August, body is smoke.
Body wears thread right to left
Its thoughts on body’s mother
Body thoughts on bodies in air
And future body on a bamboo.
The thread back to our drawer,
We await next August if there.
August is possibility of thread,
When body may yet be a thing,
Thread may hang left to right,
Awaiting next smoke on a fire.