the moon-splashed hill
is calling to me.
over the road’s spool
of dolls (once china
and now puzzle) I
sing to myself in
the reels of milk
spill, unable to sleep.
my arms crook- I
am calcified in mirror
water, lie stark still
and sweat in eyes.
in the morning
the postman makes us
sign for fire. stalks
uncork red rain and
my brother is alone
grown to silt and
ceramic. he is perfect
in the light. they
put his puppet in
bed but on the
floor. I go outside
where the spirit chants
and they tell me I
will see great things.