in the corner of the bedroom is a small tear in the wallpaper.
it is begging to be torn open.
so it is with buildings and bodies and soil.
so it is with sparrows and sunlight and darkness.
so it is with poems.
is there any one thing in the world then that is real;
real independent of its begging?
even my spirit is a beggar.
even the thing that resides on the other side of my spirit
is a beggar.
