A vet's four Vietnams harbor under sleeves.
Mission oils occupy my museum wing.
Old sofa's cat-scratched and starting
defenselessness over with a loose-weave slipcover.
It submits to cricks and tucks.
Childhood lashing lasts as folk art,
palm-prints passed down young behinds.
Paramours romp the...
Then when the flame forked like a sudden path
I gasped and stumbled, and was less.
Density pulsing upward, gauze of ash,
Dear light along the way to nothingness,
What could be made of you but light, and this?