A house where no one lives
needs someone to draw it full of glass,
then smash that glass to bits.
Glass is clear
no matter what kind,
so filling it with fingerprints is fine,
or scribbling names over names,
or pressing to it lip upon lip.
Then just like that
the glass, impassive, will vanish.
The house again
shall fill with houseness.
In its air
our traces linger, teeming;
several layers of sighs resound,
and some single shattered shard
might well glint nearby.
And then if the tree to the side
oozes out a human soul —
carve its eyes, nose, lips bright into the bark.
Should you ask, Who is it?
I’ll tell you, It’s me.
from the collection Biologicity (2009)