Craig Perez

[what the body doesn't reveal seems to alter]

Walls of the house hold something half-built, its inlay
scavenged long ago from carved figures. I pray until a slit

of light enters in the current. 'It indicates the direction of
the sun,' you say, which your voice is occupying.

You say 'memory is an exposed nest, the fringe
or inference of light, everywhere.' I hear wind about to arrive,

the way a name attaches after the landscape is empty
& imminent. Light doesn't represent an initial condition, yet what your body

doesn't reveal seems to alter how much is seen of this dream &
its approximation. My hands fail to make a sharp edge in the sand.