All the time we try to collect ourselves
The very skin cells that have flaked off
In our daily destruction and our hair
Struggles hard like a decaying pagoda
In the desert, an earth- plate gleaming
In the sun about a boy's Buddha years.
Let the fish eat them off our scaly feet
To where we go and sleep in the night
Shedding bodies,our minds in the bush.
At night we collect our gods, our pieces.
We make them wholes ,dreams in nights
Silky filaments made of fuzzy thoughts.