Over my home I rise on a trembling
wood-and-rope bridge. Sundown comes
in light-light red, lamps hung now in my hair
alight one question into the air:
Home, I made you best I could,
please don’t break again beneath me?
I beat heavily upon my life until it gave.
As for prices, I’ve paid and paid.
All the while I cut the tiniest chairs,
a thimble ship, rice-paper walls
and Japanese fans cut from receipts
no wider than a little girl’s nail.
Upon them I drew hills of wild plum, then
a hover of birds.
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