Your turn

Do you keep a tiger as a pet, stripes made of sky and highway, and how do you feed him if his teeth are walking through every room?

In the light of empty bowls, how do you trace destination back to source when every wall is mirrored?

Why are stairways green when you conjugate irises, flooding them with larvae and rice?

How many times did you say "yes" when you ambled through the winter, cringing like a peacock in full bloom?

The heat is there, even under monuments and aftershock. How do you draw it from the water, as if through a straw, as if it is part of your skeleton?

I heard someone laugh as he burried my decorated scalp. How do you get there without breaking in three?

Are you a satellite, sweet with crevices, happening to arrive?

You are there, among visionless water and shore. How do you see past autumn, so much reflection of maple and release?

What does it take to wrap you in planets, hold you in twisted gravity, delineate the source of this vibration?