Rites and phrases drift far from home.
I sift the last shoebox like a new hemisphere:
bottom drawer of consonants; final call 
for vowels.  An abundance of words – 
the sorcery begins now.

I count syllables, each a length of leaving.
Patterns like snow lingering in crevices 
behind boulders.  Expelled breath 
glitters, cyclical wound traversing 
cold mornings.  Ice-lattice weeps –

white algae melt, yeast of darkness 
dismissed from consciousness. 
Threats bear suggestions: 
sweet-green-sweet, rose-red-rose.
nicotine fingers smear line-by-line.

As I leave, I pull the prow of my cap,
doff calloused death, structured 
feted and long, poised then lost.
Lesions no longer ignored as sequent.  
Sped by an epistle, by my elegy:

I chase the lodestar glow, its template
until I can lasso the infinite.  Nurse 
the whelp from a wool scarf’s wound.
Yank the hound’s tail until it bites back.  
Corral the wild beasts, and feed them well.