tent

trace the stars,
with your finger--it is true,
the only writing that means

anything--is buried in the bone
your finger, trace the stars,

limn the constellations, raise the
rafters, thrust the patterns

rubbish, dross and other miscellany
above our heads, the linework

folly, the thin web of recollection
imperfect, whisking in the wind,

tracing the hilltops, breaking them
into segments--it makes them better,

canvas and memory, hang the lights,
or better--make the heavens your lantern,

the moon in the gaps left by experience,

--standing in the center of asphalt circle,
legs like poles--darts between them,

fingers against the sky: flaps and side, the
rope of half-read stories

swaying between them, the wind lights,
goes--this shelter without walls,

tensile, the intangible ceiling--throw the slanting
tipping, spinning, whole of it against the sky,

half-wise, half-built--better written
in fragments, unexpected--it is new

it's old--but the trace rises and weaves
eclectic accretion--becomes whole

and part, frames the sky