I think of spaces, holes made by space in a sky of space
Holes in under-shirts like tiny stars on a stand-still night
Pockets that had the air and sea of laughing childhoods,
Villages visited, fairs that sold hair-bands, plastic flowers
Sweets of white sugar, that took the forms of noisy parrots
Of dark men who had gobbled space behind those hills
And harvesters of green fields, their feet of sinking space
In muddy rice plantings, their female throats crying songs
Of rain that sliced through space, in marriage with the sun
Spaces contained in humongous mountains, like bubbles
That issue slowly from a kid brother’s running half-mouth.


I think of space in this room that continues to the horizon
Beyond curtains, houses, trees, vehicles, rivers, hills, seas
Over heads of people, their thoughts, their sleeping dreams 
The  blabber of children, the wails of old women, refusals to 
Speak by dead men on the bamboo stretchers, the fires that
Followed them in pitchers and rice-flakes strewn around
And yellow marigolds that celebrated their joy of dying.


 I think of spaces eaten by the buffalos in their slow mouths
Their thoughts in their udders of flowing milk, in their eyes
That flickered in the blinding headlights of oncoming trucks
With the spaces that stretched from them on endless nights.





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